Away, thou hideous hell-born sprite, Fly to some gloomy shade, nor blot the goodly light. For ever cursing, and for ever curs'd, The worst in genius, measure, and degree; For envy, hatred, malice, are but parts of thee. Or would'st thou change the scene, and quit the den Where spleen, by vapours dense begot and bred, There may'st thou all thy bitterness unload, There may'st thou croak in concert with the toad, With thee the hollow howling winds shall join, Nor shall the bittern her base throat deny, The querulous frogs shall mix their dregs with thine, Th' ear-piercing hern, the plover screaming high, Millions of humming gnats fit œstrum shall supply. Away-away--behold an hideous band, An herd of all thy minions are at hand; Foe to the virgin's and the poet's fame, A wither'd time-deflower'd old maid, That ne'er enjoy'd love's ever-sacred flame. Hypocrisy succeeds with saint-like look, And elevates her hands, and plods upon her book. Next comes illiberal scrambling Avarice, Then Vanity, and Affectation nice-See, she salutes her shadow with a bow, As in short Gallic trips she minces by, Starting antipathy is in her eye, And squeamishly she knits her scornful brow. To thee, Ill-Nature, all the numerous group With lowly reverence stoop— They wait thy call, and mourn thy long delay, Smart TO HOSPITALITY. DOMESTIC Power! erewhile rever'd Thou to Albion too wert known, The traveller, doubtful of his way, E'en now, on Caledonia's shore, When Eve's dun robe the sky arrays, There thine the pleasing interviews When tales, not often told, we hear; There the scholar's liberal mind O gentle power! where'er thy reign, Wealth to thee her offerings pay, Scott. TO MIRTH. PARENT of joy! heart-easing Mirth! So shall each hill in purer green array'd shade, And streams in murmurs shall forget to flow. Shine, goddess, shine with unremitted ray, And gild (a second sun) with brighter beam our day. Labour with thee forgets his pain, And aged Poverty can smile with thee, If thou be nigh, Grief's hate is vain, And weak th' uplifted arm of Tyranny. The Morning opes on high His universal eye; And on the world doth pour His glories in a golden shower, Lo! Darkness trembling 'fore the hostile ray Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn: The brood obscene, that own her gloomy sway, Troop in her rear, and fly th' approach of morn. Pale shivering ghosts, that dread th' all-cheering light, [night. Quick, as the lightning's flash, glide, to sepulchral But whence the gladdening beam O'er the long prospect wide? "Tis Mirth. I see her sit In majesty of light, With Laughter at her side. Now Mirth hath heard the suppliant poet's prayer: No cloud that rides the blast shall vex the troubled. air. VOL. III. 10 Smollet. |