Nor has it left the usual bloody scar, War that mad game the world fo loves to play, For, though with lofs or victory a while Fortune the gamefters does beguile, Yet at the laft the box fweeps all away. VI. Only the laurel got by peace No thunder e'er can blaft: Shoots to the earth, and dies; Nor ever green and flourishing 'twill last, Nor dipt in blood, nor widows' tears, nor orphans' cries. About the head crown'd with these bays, Like lambent fire the lightning plays ; Nor, its triumphal cavalcade to grace, Makes up its folemn train with death; It melts the fword of war, yet keeps it in the sheath. VII. The wily fhifts of state, thofe jugglers' tricks, (As in a theatre the ignorant fry, Because the cords efcape their eye, Off fly the vizards, and difcover all : How plain I fee through the deceit ! Look, Look where the pully 's tied above! Great God! (faid I) what have I seen! On what poor engines move The thoughts of monarchs, and designs of states ! How the mouse makes the mighty mountain shake! Scar'd at th' unheard-of prodigy, See how they tremble! how they quake! Out ftarts the little beaft, and mocks their idle fears. VIII. Then tell, dear favourite Mufe! What ferpent's that which still resorts, Still lurks in palaces and courts ? Take thy unwonted flight, And on the terrace light. See where the lies! See how fhe rears her head, And rolls about her dreadful eyes, To drive all virtue out, or look it dead! So he wore his within, Made up of virtue and transparent innocence; And though he oft' renew'd the fight, And almost got priority of fight, He ne'er could overcome her quite (In pieces cut, the viper ftill did re-unite), Till, at laft, tir'd with lofs of time and cafe, Refolv'd to give himfelf, as well as country, peace. IX. Sing, belov'd Mufe! the pleasures of retreat, Shew the delights thy fifter Nature yields; Sing of thy vales, fing of thy woods, fing of thy fields ; Go publish o'er the plain How mighty a profelyte you gain ! How is the Mufe luxuriant grown! To the lov'd pasture where he us'd to feed, Oft' fhe looks back in vain, Oft' 'gainst her fountain does complain, And foftly fteals in many windings down, And murmurs as the glides away. X. In this new happy scene Are nobler fubjects for your learned pen; Here we expect from you More than your predeceffor Adam knew; Whence takes it its increase, and whence its birth, How fome go downward to the root, And form the leaves, the branches, and the fruit. Shall I believe a spirit fo divine Was caft in the fame mold with mine? Why then does Nature fo unjustly share Among her elder fons the whole eftate, And all her jewels and her plate? Poor we! cadets of Heaven, not worth her care, Take up at best with lumber and the leavings of a fare: Some the binds 'prentice to the spade, Some to the drudgery of a trade, Some the does to Egyptian bondage draw, Bids us make bricks, yet fends us to look out for ftraw: To dig the leaden mines of deep philosophy : And, when I almost reach the shore, Whene'er I mourn, ftops my complaining breath, XII. Then, Sir, accept this worthlefs verfe, 'Tis all the portion of my niggard stars ; And, fince too oft' debauch'd by praise, 'Tis now grown an incurable disease : In vain all wholesome herbs I fow, Whate'er I plant (like corn on barren earth) Seeds, and runs up to poetry. ODE |