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SAPPHIC ODE.

How easy is his life, and free, Who, urg'd by no necessity,

Eats cheerful bread, and over night does pay
For's next day's crapula.

No suitor such a mean estate
Invites to be importunate,
No supple flatt'rer, robbing villain, or
Obstreperous creditor.

This man does need no bolts nor locks, Nor needs he starts when any knocks, But may on careless pillow lie and snore, With a wide open door.

Trouble and danger wealth attend, An useful but a dangerous friend, Who makes us pay, e'er we can be releas'd, Quadruple interest.

Let's live to day then for to morrow, The fool's too provident will borrow A thing, which, through chance or infirmity, 'Tis odds he ne'er may see.

Spend all then ere you go to Heaven, So with the world you will make even; And men discharge by dying Nature's score, Which done, we owe no more,

THE MORNING QUATRAINS.

THE cock has crow'd an hour ago,
'Tis time we now dull sleep forego;
Tir'd nature is by sleep redress'd,
And labour's overcome by rest.

We have out-done the work of night,
'Tis time we rise t' attend the light,
And ere he shall his beams display,
To plot new bus'ness for the day.
None but the slothful, or unsound,
Are by the Sun in feathers found;
Nor, without rising with the Sun.
Can the world's bus'ness e'er be done.

Hark! hark! the watchful chanticler
Tells us the day's bright harbinger
Peeps o'er the eastern hills, to awe
And warn night's sov'reign to withdraw.
The morning curtains now are drawn,
And now appears the blushing dawn;
Aurora has her roses shed,

To strew the way Sol's steeds must tread.

Xanthus and Æthon harness'd are,
To roll away the burning car,
And, snorting flame, impatient bear
The dressing of the charioteer.

The sable cheeks of sullen Night

Are streak'd with rosy streams of light,
Whilst she retires away in fear,
To shade the other hemisphere.
The merry lark now takes her wings,
And long'd-for days loud welcome sings,
Mounting her body out of sight,
As if she meant to meet the light.

Now doors and windows are unbarr'd,
Each-where are cheerful voices heard;
And round about good-morrows fly,
As if day taught humanity.

The chimnies now to smoke begin,
And the old wife sits down to spin;
Whilst Kate, taking her pail, does trip
Mull's swoln and straddling paps to strip.
Vulcan now makes his anvil ring,
Dick whistles loud, and Maud doth sing;
And Silvio, with his bugle horn,
Winds an imprime unto the morn.

Now through the morning doors behold
Phoebus, array'd in burning gold,
Lashing his fiery steeds, displays
His warm and all enlight'ning rays.
Now each ore to his work prepares,
All that have hands are laboure's;
And manufactures of each trade,
By op'ning shops, are open laid.

Hob yokes his oxen to the team,
The angler goes unto the stream;
The woodman to the purlieus hies,
And lab'ring bees to load their thighs.

Fair Amarillis drives her flocks,
All night safe folded from the fox,
To flow'ry downs, where Colin stays
To court her with his roundelays.
The traveller now leaves his inn,
A new day's journey to begin,
As he would post it with the day,
And early rising makes good way.

The sleek-fac'd schoolboy satchel takes,
And with slow pace small riddance makes;
For why, the haste we make, you know,
To knowledge and to virtue's slow.

The fore-horse gingles on the road,
The waggoner lugs on his load;
The field with busy people snies,
And city rings with various cries.
The world is now a busy swarm,
All doing good, or doing harm;
But let's take heed our acts be true,
For Heaven's eye sees all we do.

None can that piercing sight evade,
It penetrates the darkest shade;
And sin, though it could 'scape the eye,
Would be discover'd by the cry.

NOON QUATRAINS.

THE Day grows hot, and darts his rays
From such a sure and killing place,
That this half world are fain to fly
The danger of his burning eye.

His early glories were benign,
Warm to be felt, bright to be seen,
And all was comfort; but who can
Endure him when meridian?

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The grazing herds now droop and pant,
E'en without labour fit to faint,
And willingly forsook their meat,
To seck out cover from the heat,

The lagging ox is now unbound,
From larding the new turn'd-up ground,
Whilst Hobbinol, alike o'er-laid,
Takes his coarse dinner to the shade.

Cellars and grottos now are best
To eat and drink in, or to rest;
And not a soul above is found
Can find a refuge under ground.
When pagan tyranny grew hot,
Thus persecuted Christians got
Into the dark but friendly womb
of unknown subterranean Rome.
And as that heat did cool at last,
30 a few scorching hours o'er past,
In a more mild and temp'rate ray
We may again enjoy the day.

At her transparent window there
Thou'lt see Aminta's eye appear,

That, like a Sun set round with ray,
The shadows from the sky shall chase,
Changing the colour of its face

Into a bright and glorious day;
Yet do not fear this Sun so bright,
For 'tis a mighty friend to Night.
Rise then, lov'd Night, rise from the sea,
And to my Sun Aurora be,

And now thy blackest garment wear;
Dull sleep already thee foregoes,
And each-where a dumb silence does
Thy long'd-for long approach declare;
I know the star that gives me light,
To see me only stays for Night.
Ha! I see shades rise from th' abyss,
And now I go the lips to kiss,

The breasts and eyes have me deceiv'd; Oh, Night! the height of my desire, Canst thou put on so black attire.

That I by none can be perceiv'd,
And that I may this happy night
See the bright star that gives me light?

Oh! that my dusky goddess could
In her thick mantle so enfold

Heaven's torches, as to damp their fire,
That here on Earth thou might'st for ever
Keep thy dark empire, Night, and never
Under the waves again retire;

That endless so might be the night,
Wherein I see the star, my light.

THE NIGHT.

WRITTEN BY MONSIEUR LE COMTE DE CREMAIL.

STANZES.

Ou, Night! by me so oft requir'd,
Oh, Night! by me so much desir'd,
Of my felicity the cause,

Oh, Night! so welcome to my eyes,
Grant, in this horrour of the skies,

This dreadful shade thy curtain draws,
That I may now adore this night
The star that burns and gives me light.

Spread o'er th Earth thy sable veil,
Heaven's twinkling sparklets to conceal,

That darkness seems to day t' improve;

For other light I do need none
To guide me to my lovely one,

But only that of mine own love;

And all light else offends my sight,
But hers whose eye does give me light.

Oblivion of our forepass'd woes,
Thou charm of sadness, and repose

Of souls that languish in despair,
Why dost thou not from Lethe rise?
Dost thou not see the whole world snies
With lovers, who themselves declare
Enemies to all noise and light,
And covet nothing but the night?

EVENING QUATRAINS.

THE day's grown old, the fainting Sun
Has but a little way to run;
And yet his steeds, with all his skill,
Scarce lug the chariot down the hill.

With labour spent, and thirst opprest,
Whilst they strain hard to gain the West,
From fetlocks hot drops melted li.ht,
Which turn to meteors in the night.

The shadows now so long do grow,
That brambles like tall cedars show;
Molehills seem mountains, and the ant
Appears a monstrous elephant.

A very little, little flock

Shades thrice the ground that it would stock;
Whilst the small stripling following them,
Appears a mighty Polypheme.

These being brought into the fold,
And by the thrifty master told,
He thinks his wages are well paid,
Since none are either lost or stray'd.
Now lowing herds are cach-where heard,
Chains rattle in the villains' yard;
The cart's on tail set down to rest,
Bearing on high the cuckold's crest.
The hedge is stript, the clothes brought in,
Naught's left without should be within;
The bees are hiv'd, and hum their charm,
Whilst every house does seem a swarm.

The cock now to the roost is prest,
For he must call up all the rest:
The sow's fast pegg'd within the stye,
To still her squeaking progeny.
Each one has had his supping mess,
The cheese is put into the press;
The pans and bowls clean scalded all,
Rear'd up against the milk house wall.

And now on benches all are sat
In the cool air to sit and chat,
Till Phoebus, dipping in the West,
Shall lead the world the way to rest.

NIGHT QUATRAINS.

THE Sun is set, and gone to sleep
With the fair princess of the deep,
Whose bosom is his cool retreat,
When fainting with his proper heat:
His steeds their flaming nostrils cool
In spume of the Cerulean pool;
Whilst the wheels dip their hissing naves
Deep in Columbus' western waves.

From whence great rolls of smoke arise
To overshade the beauteous skies;
Who bid the world's bright eye adicu
In gelid tears of falling dew.

And now from the Iberian vales
Night's sable steeds her chariot hales,
Where double cypress curtains screen
The gloomy melancholic queen.
These, as they higher mount the sky,
Ravish all colour from the eye,
And leave it but an useless glass,
Which few or no reflections grace.
The crystal arch o'er Pindus' crown
Is on a sudden dusky grown,
And all's with fun'ral black o'erspread,
As if the day, which sleeps, were dead.

No ray of light the heart to cheer,
But little twinkling stars appear;
Which like faint dying embers lie,
Fit nor to work nor travel by.

Perhaps to him they torches are,

Who guide Night's sovereign's drowsy car,
And him they may befriend so near,
But us they neither light nor cheer.

Or else those little sparks of light
Are nails, that tire the wheels of Night,
Which to new stations still are brought,
As they roll o'er the gloomy vault.
Or nails that arm the horses' hoof,
Which trampling o'er the marble roof,
And striking fire in the air,
We mortals call a shooting star,

That's all the light we now receive,
Unless what belching Vulcans give;
And those yield such a kind of light
As adds more horrour to the night.
Nyctimene, now freed from day,
From sullen bush flies out to prey,
And does with ferret note proclaim
Th' arrival of th' usurping dame.

The rail now cracks in fields and meads,
Toads now forsake the nettle-beds,
The tim'rous hare goes to relief,

And wary men bolt out the thief.

The fire's new rak'd, and hearth swept clean,

By Madge, the dirty kitchen quean;
The safe is lock'd, the mouse-trap set,
The leaven laid, and bucking wet.
Now in false floors and roofs above,
The lustful cats make ill-tun'd love;
The ban-dog on the dunghill lies,
And watchful nurse sings lullabies.
Philomel chants it whilst she bleeds,
The bittern booms it in the reeds;
And Reynard ent'ring the back yard,
The Capitolian cry is heard.

The goblin now the fool alarms,
Hags meet to mumble o'er their charms;
The night-mare rides the dreaming ass,
And fairies trip it on the grass.

The drunkard now supinely snores,
His load of ale sweats through his pores;
Yet, when he wakes, the swine shall find
A crapula remains behind.

The sober now and chaste are blest
With sweet, and with refreshing rest;
And to sound sleeps they've best pretence,
Have greatest share of innocence.

We should so live, then, that we may,
Fearless, put off our clots and clay,
And travel through Death's shades to light;
For every day must have its night.

ODE.

Good night, my love, may gentle rest
Charm up your senses till the light,
Whilst I, with care and woe opprest,
Go to inhabit endless night.

There, whilst your eyes shall grace the day,
I must, in the despairing shade,

Sigh such a woeful time away,

As never yet poor lover had.

Yet to this endless solitude

There is one dangerous step to pass, To one that loves your sight so rude, As flesh and blood is loth to pass.

But I will take it, to express

I worthily your favours wore;
Your merits (sweet) can claim no less,
Who dies for you, can do no more.

ODE DE MONSIEUR RACAN.

INGRATEFUL Cause of all my harms, 1 go to seek, amidst alarms,

My death, or liberty;

And that's all now I've left to do,
Since (cruel fair!) in serving you
I can nor live or die.

The king his towns sees desert made,

The drudge who would all get, all save, His plains with armed troops o'erspread,

Like a brute beast both feeds and lies; Violence does control;

Prone to the earth, he digs bis grave, All's fire and sword before his eyes,

And in the very labour dies.
Yet has he fewer enemies
Than I have in my soul.

Excess of ill-got, ill-kept pelf,

Does only death and danger breed; But yet, alas ! my hope is vain

Whilst one rich worldling starves himself To put a period to my pain,

With what would thousand others feed. By any desperate ways; 'Tis you that hold my life enchain'd,

By which we see what wealth and pow'r, And (under Heaven) yon command,

Although they make men rich and great, And only you, my days.

The sweets of life do often sour,

And gull ambition with a cheat.
If in a battle's loud'st alarms
I rush amongst incensed arms,

Nor is he happier than these,
Invoking Death to take me,

Who in a moderate estate,
Seeing me look so pale, the foe

Where he might safely live at ease,
Will think me Death himself, and so

Has lusts that are immoderate.
Not venture to attack me.

For he, by those desires misled,
In bloody fields, where Mars doth make

Quits his own vine's securing shade, With his loud thunder all to shake,

T'expose his naked, empty head,
Both Earth and Heav'n to boot;

To all the storms man's peace invade.
Man's pow'r to kill me I despise,
Since love, with arrows from your eyes,

Nor is he happy who is trim,
Had not the pow'r to do't.

Trick'd up in favours of the fair,
No! I must languish still unblest,

Mirrours, with every breath made dim, And in worst torments manifest

Birds, caught in every wanton snare. My firm fidelity;

Woman, man's greatest woe or bliss, Or that my reason set me free,

Does ofter far, than serve, enslave,
Since (fair) in serving you, I see

And with the magic of a kiss,
I can nor live nor die.

Destroys whom she was made to save.
Oh, fruitful grief, the world's disease!

And vainer man to make it so,
CONTENTATION.

Who gives his miseries increase
DIRECTED TO MY DEAR FATHER, AND MOST WORTHY By cultivating his own woe.
FRIEND, MR. ISAAC WALTON.

There are no ills but what we make, Heav'N, what an age is this! what race

By giving shapes and names to things; nf giants are sprung up, that dare

Which is the dangerous mistake Thus fiy in the Almighty's face,

That causes all our sufferings. And with his providence make wap !

We call that sickness, which is health, I can go no where but I meet

That persecution, which is grace; With malecontents and mutineers,

That poverty, which is true wealti, As if in life was nothing sweet,

And that dishonour, which is praise. And we must blessings reap in tears

Providence watches over all, O senseless man! that murmurs still

And that with an impartial eye ; For happiness, and does not know,

And if to misery we fall, Even though he might enjoy his will,

"Tis through our own infirmity. What he would have to make him so.

"Tis want of foresight makes the bold Is it true happiness to be

Ambitious youth to danger climb; By undiscerning Fortune plac'd,

And want of virtue, when the old In the most eminent degree,

At persecntion do repine. Where few arrive, and none stand fast?

Alas! our time is here so short, Titles and wealth are Fortune's toils,

That in what state soe'er 'tis spent, Wherewith the vain themselves ensnare:

Of joy or woe, does not import, The great are proud of borrow'd spoils,

Provided it be innocent. The miser's plenty breeds his care,

But we may make it pleasant too, The one supinely yawns at rest,

If we will take our measures right, Th’other eternally doth toil;

And not what Heav'n has done, unde Each of them equally a beast,

By an unruly appetite. A pamper'd horse, or lab'ring moil,

'Tis contentation that alone The titulados oft disgracd,

Can make us happy here below; By public hate or private frown,

And when this little life is gone, And he whose hand the creature rais'a,

Will lift us up to four'n toon llas yet a foot to kick him dowo,

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A very little satines

One that some seeds of virtue had ; An honest and a grateful heart;

But one run resolutely niad, And who would more than will suffice,

A fiend, a fury, and a beast! Does covet more than is his part.

Or a demoniac at least, That man is happy in his share,

Who, without sense of sin or shame, Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed,

At nothivg but dire mischiefs aim, (name. Whose necessaries bound his care,

Egg'd by the prince of fiends, and Legion is bis And honest labour makes his bed.

Alas! my reason's overcast,
Who free from deht, and clear from crimes, That sovereign guide is quite displac'd,
Honours those laws that others fear,

Clearly dismounted from his throne,
Who i!l of princes, in worst times,

Banish'd his empire, filed and gone ! Will neither speak himself, nor hear.

And in his room

An infamous usurper's come, Who from ihe busy world retires,

Whose name is sounding in mine ear To be more useful to it still,

Like that, methi ks, of Oliver. And to no greater goori aspires,

Nav, I remember in his life But only the eschewing ill.

Such a disease as mine was mighty rife, Who, with his angle and his books,

And yet, methinks, it cannot be, Can think the longest day well spent,

That he And praises God when back he looks,

Should be crept into me; And finds that all was innocent.

My skin could ne'er contain sure so much evil,

Nor any place but llell can hold so great a devil. This man is happier far than he Whom public business oft betrays,

But by its symptoms now I know Through labyrinths of policy,

What 'tis that does torment me so; To crooked and forbidden ways.

"Tis a disease, The world is full of beaten roads,

As great a fiend almost as these,

That drinks up all my better blood,
But yet so slippery withal,
That where one walks secure, 'tis odds

And leaves the rest a standing pool,
A bundred and a hundred fall.

And though I ever little understood,

Makes me a thousand times more fool. Untrolden paths are then the best,

Fumes up dark vapours to my brain, Where the frequented are unsure ;

Creates burnt choler in my breast, And he comes soonest to his rest,

And of these nobler parts possest, Whose journey has been most secure.

Tyrannically there does reign.

Oh! when (kind Heaven) shall I be well again! It is content alone that makes Our pilgrimage a pleasure here ;

Accursed Melancholy! it was sin And who buys sorrow cheapest, takes

First brought thee in; An ill commodity too dear.

Sin lodg'd thee first in our first father's breast, Put he bas fortunes worst withstood,

By sin tlou’rt nourish'd, and by sio increas'd, And happiness can never miss,

Thou'rt man's own creature, he has giv'n thee Can covet naught, but where he stood,

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The sweets of life thus to devour :
And thinks him happy where he is.

To niake us shun the cheerful light,
An I crerp into the shades of night,

Where the sly tempter ambush'd lies,
MELANCHOLY.

To make the disconiented soul his prize.

There the progenitor of guile

Accosts as in th' old serpent's style; What in the name of wonder's this

Rails at the world as well as we, Which lies so heavy at my heart,

Nay, Providener itself 's not free: That I ev'u death itself could kiss,

Proceeding then to aris of Hattery, And think it were the greatest bliss

He there extols our valour and our parts, Even at this moment to depart!

Spriadis all bis nets to catch our incarts, Life, even to the wretched clear,

Concluding thus : “ What generous mind
To ine's so nauseous growi,

Would longer bere draw breath,
There is no ill I'd not commit,

That might so sure a refuge find
But proud of what would forfeit it,

In the repose of death !”
Would act the mischief without fear,

Which having said, he to our choice presents And wade through thousand lives to lose my own.

AN his destroying instruments,

Swords and stilettos, halters, pistols, knives, Yea, Nature never taught me bloody rules,

Poisons, both quick and slow, to end our lives Nor was 1 yet with vicious precept bred ; Or if we like none of those fine devices, And now my virtue paints my cheeks in gules, He then presents us pools and precipices;

To check me for the wicked thing I said. Or to let ont, or suffocate our breath,
Tis not then I, but something in my breast, And by once dying to obtain an everlasting death.
With which unwittingly I am possost,

Which breathes forth borrour to proclaim, Araunt, thou deril, Melancholy !
That I am now no more the same :

Thou grave and sober folly !

PINDARIC ODE.

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