Nature, alas! why art thou so

Obliged to thy greatest foe?

Sleep, that is thy best repast,

Yet of death it bears a taste,

And both are the same thing at last.

XVI.

IMITATION OF THE 29th OF HORACE, BOOK FIRST.—

DRYDEN.

DESCENDED of an ancient line,

That long the Tuscan sceptre swayed,

Make haste to meet the generous wine,

Whose piercing is for thee delayed:

The rosy wreath is ready made,

And artful hands prepare

The fragrant Syrian oil, that shall perfume thy hair.

When the wine sparkles from afar,

And the well-natured friend cries, "Come away!" Make haste, and leave thy business and thy care,

No mortal interest can be worth thy stay.

Leave for a while thy costly country seat,
And, to be great indeed, forget

The nauseous pleasures of the great :

Make haste and come;

Come, and forsake thy cloying store;

Thy turret, that surveys, from high,

The smoke and wealth, and noise of Rome,

And all the busy pageantry

That wise men scorn, and fools adore;

Come, give thy soul a loose, and taste the pleasures of the

poor.

Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich to try

A short vicissitude, and fit of poverty:
A savoury dish, a homely treat,

Where all is plain, where all is neat,
Without the stately spacious room,
The Persian carpet, or the Tyrian loom,

Clear

up the cloudy foreheads of the great.

The sun is in the Lion mounted high;

The Syrian star

Barks from afar,

And with his sultry breath infects the sky;

The ground below is parched, the heavens above us fry:

The shepherd drives his fainting flock

Beneath the covert of a rock,

And seeks refreshing rivulets nigh:

The Sylvans to their shades retire,

Those very shades and streams new shades and streams

require,

And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire.

Thou, what befits the new Lord Mayor,

And what the city factions dare,

And what the Gallic arms will do,

And what the quiver-bearing foe,

Art anxiously inquisitive to know:

But God has, wisely, hid from human sight
The dark decrees of future fate,

And sown their seeds in depth of night;

He laughs at all the giddy turns of state,
When mortals search too soon, and fear too late.

Enjoy the present smiling hour,

And put it out of fortune's power;

The tide of business, like the running stream,
Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,

A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow,

And always in extreme.

Now with a noiseless gentle course

It keeps within the middle bed;

Anon it lifts aloft the head,

And bears down all before it with impetuous force:

And trunks of trees come rolling down,

Sheep and their folds together drown;

Both house and homested into seas are borne,

And rocks are from their old foundations torn,

And woods, made thin with winds, their scattered honours

mourn.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He, who can call to-day his own;