« ПредишнаНапред »
O-morrow, didft thou say !
Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow. Go to
-I will not hear of it-To-morrow !
'Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury
Against thy plenty who takes thy ready cash,
And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and promises,
The currency of ideots.-Injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor !- -To-morrow !
It is a period no where to be found
In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father ;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are ; and baseless
As the fantastic visions of the evening.
But soft, my friend arrest the present moments ;
For be assured, they all are arrant tell-tales;
And tho their Aight be filent, and their path
Trackless, as the wing'd couriers of the air,
They post to heav'n, and there record thy folly.
Because, tho' Itation'd on th' important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless centinel,
Didit let them pafs unnotic'd, unimprov'd.
And know, for that thou slumber'dft on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For ev'ry fugitive : and when thou thus
Shalt ftand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-wink'd Justice, who shall tell thy audit!
Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio ;
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings.
'Tis of more worth than kingdoms ! far more precious
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fortune.
Oh! let it not elude thy gralp, but like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the feet angel fast, until he bless thee.
On Lord COBHAM's Gardens.
T puzzles much the sages' brains,
Where Eden stood of yore;
Some place it in Arabia's plains,
Some say, it is no more.
But Cobham can these tales confute,
As all the curious know ;
For he has prov'd beyond dispute,
That paradise is Stow.
To a Child of Five Years old.
AIREST flow'r, all flow'rs excelling,
Which in Eden's garden grew;
Flow'rs of Eve's imbower'd dwelling
Are, my Fair-one, types of you. .
Mark, my Polly, how the roses
Emulate thy damask cheek;
How the bud its sweets discloses,
Buds thy opening bloom bespeak,
Lilies are, by plain direction,
Emblems of a double kind;
Emblems of thy fair complexion,
Emblems of thy fairer mind.
But, dear girl, both flow'rs and beauty
Blossom, fade, and die away;
Then pursue good sense and duty,
Evergreens, that ne'er decay.
Alluding to Milton's defcription of Eve's bower.
E gay attire, ne marble hall,
Ne arched roof, ne pictur'd wall;
Ne cook of Fraunce, ne dainty board,
Bestow'd with pypes of perigord ;
Ne power, ne such like idle fancies ;
Sweet Agnes grant to father Francis ;
Let me ne more myself deceive ;
Ne more regret the toys I leave ;
The world I quit, the proud, the vain,
Corruption's and Ambition's train ;
But not the good, perdie nor fair,
'Gainst them I make ne vow, ne pray'r ;
But such aye welcome to my cell,
And oft, not always, with me dwell ;
'Then calt, sweet Saint, a circle round,
And bless from fools this holy ground;
From all the foes to worth and truth,
From wanton old, and homely youth ;
The gravely dull and pertly gay,
Oh banish these ; and by my fay,
Right well I ween that in this age,
Mine house shall prove an hermitage.
An Inscription on the Cell.
Beneath these moss-grown roots, this rustick cell,
Truth, Liberty, Content, fequefter'd dwell;
Say you, who dare our hermitage disdain,
What drawing-room can boast fo fair a train ?
An Inscription in the Cell.
Sweet bird that fing'it on yonder spray,
Pursue unharm'd thy sylvan lay;
While I beneath this breezy shade,
In peace repose my careless head;
And joining thy enraptur'd song,
Instruct the world-enamour'd throng;
That the contented harmless breast
In solitude itself is bleft.