For my garments, let them be
What may with the time agree;
50 Warm, when Phoebus does retire,
And is ill-supplied by fire;

But when he renews the year
And verdant all the fields appear,
Beauty every thing resumes,

55 Birds have dropt their winter-plumes;
When the lily full display'd
Stands in purer white array'd
Than that vest which heretofore
The luxurious monarch1 wore

60 When from Salem's gates he drove
To the soft retreat of love,
Lebanon's all burnish'd house,
And the dear Egyptian spouse,-
Clothe me, Fate, tho' not so gay,
65 Clothe me light, and fresh as May.
In the fountains let me view
All my habit cheap and new,
Such as, when sweet zephyrs fly,
With their motions may comply,
70 Gently waving, to express

Unaffected carelessness.

No perfumes have there a part, Borrow'd from the chemist's art; But such as rise from flow'ry beds, 75 Or the falling jasmine sheds! 'Twas the odor of the field Esau's rural coat did yield That inspir'd his father's prayer For blessings of the earth and air. 80 Of gums or powders had it smelt, The supplanter, then unfelt, Easily had been descry'd

For one that did in tents abide, For some beauteous handmaid's joy 85 And his mother's darling boy.2

Let me then no fragrance wear

But what the winds from gardens bear In such kind, surprising gales As gather'd from Fidentia's vales 90 All the flowers that in them grew; Which intermixing, as they flew, In wreathen garlands dropt again On Lucullus, and his men, Who, cheer'd by the victorious sight 95 Trebl'd numbers put to flight. Let me, when I must be fine, In such natural colors shine; Wove, and painted by the sun, Whose resplendent rays to shun, 100 When they do too fiercely beat, Let me find some close retreat Where they have no passage made Thro' those windings, and that shade.

1 Solomon. I Kings, 7:1-12.

2 Genesis, 25-27.

Exert thy voice, sweet harbinger of
Spring!

This moment is thy time to sing,
This moment I attend to praise,
And set my numbers to thy lays.
Free as thine shall be my song;
As thy music, short, or long.
Poets, wild as thee, were born,

Pleasing best when unconfin'd, When to please is least design'd, 10 Soothing but their cares to rest;

15

Cares do still their thoughts molest, And still th' unhappy poet's breast, Like thine, when best he sings, is plac'd against a thorn.1

She begins; let all be still!

Muse, thy promise now fulfil!
Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet!
Can thy words such accents fit?
Canst thou syllables refine,
Melt a sense that shall retain
20 Still some spirit of the brain,
Till with sounds like these it join?

"Twill not be! then change thy note;
Let division shake thy throat.
Hark! division now she tries;

25 Yet as far the muse outflies.
Cease then, prithee, cease thy tune;
Trifler, wilt thou sing till June?
Till thy bus'ness all lies waste,
And the time of building's past!
30 Thus we poets that have speech,
Unlike what thy forests teach,

If a fluent vein be shown
That's transcendent to our own,
Criticise, reform, or preach,

35 Or censure what we cannot reach.

When the loos'd horse now, as his pasture leads,

30 Comes slowly grazing thro' th' adjoining meads,

Whose stealing pace, and lengthen'd shade we fear,

Till torn up forage in his teeth we hear; When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,

And unmolested kine re-chew the cud; 35 When curlews cry beneath the villagewalls,

And to her straggling brood the partridge calls:

Their shortliv'd jubilee the creatures keep,

Which but endures whilst tyrant-man does sleep;

When a sedate content the spirit feels, 40 And no fierce light disturb, whilst it reveals;

But silent musings urge the mind to seek Something too high for syllables to speak;

175 Chill, dark, alone, adreed,1 he lay, Till up the welkin2 rose the day,

contempt, as of a mean kind of hawk. A kestrel is a common European fal

con.

Will-o'-the-wisp.

8 deftly

180

Then deem'd the dole was o'er: But wot ye well his harder lot? His seely back the bunch has got Which Edwin lost afore.

How deep yon azure dyes the sky, 10 Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, While through their ranks in silver pride The nether crescent seems to glide! The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, 15 Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds which on the right aspire, In dimness from the view retire: The left presents a place of graves, 20 Whose wall the silent water laves. That steeple guides thy doubtful sight Among the livid gleams of night. There pass, with melancholy state, By all the solemn heaps of fate, 25 And think, as softly-sad you tread Above the venerable dead,

"Time was, like thee they life possest, And time shall be that thou shalt rest."

Those graves, with bending osier1 bound,

30 That nameless heave the crumbled ground,

Quick to the glancing thought disclose,
Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel's slender help to fame,
35 (Which ere our set of friends decay
Their frequent steps may wear away,)
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.

The marble tombs that rise on high, 40 Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones,

Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,

These, all the poor remains of state, Adorn the rich, or praise the great; 45 Who while on earth in fame they live, Are senseless of the fame they give.

Hah! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades!
All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with
shrouds,

50 They rise in visionary crowds,

And all with sober accent cry,
"Think, mortal, what it is to die."

Now from yon black and funeral yew,2 That bathes the charnel-house with dew, 55 Methinks I hear a voice begin;

(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, Ye tolling clocks, no time resound O'er the long lake and midnight ground!) It sends a peal of hollow groans, 60 Thus speaking from among the bones:

"When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a king of fears am I!
They view me like the last of things:
They make, and then they dread, my
stings.

65 Fools! if you less provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre-form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God;
A port of calms, a state of ease
70 From the rough rage of swelling seas.

"Why then thy flowing sable stoles, Deep pendant cypress,3 mourning poles, Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,

1 willow

2 The yew is a common tree in graveyards. A kind of thin cloth, often used for mourning. A pole (pile) is a fabric with a heavy nap.

Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds,

75 And plumes of black, that, as they tread, Nod o'er the scutcheons of the dead?

"Nor can the parted body know, Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe, As men who long in prison dwell, 80 With lamps that glimmer round the cell, Whene'er their suffering years are run, Spring forth to greet the glittering sun: Such joy, though far transcending sense, Have pious souls at parting hence. 85 On earth, and in the body plac'd, A few, and evil years they waste; But when their chains are cast aside, See the glad scene unfolding wide, Clap the glad wing, and tower away, 90 And mingle with the blaze of day."

A HYMN TO CONTENTMENT
1721

Lovely, lasting peace of mind!
Sweet delight of human-kind!
Heavenly-born, and bred on high,
To crown the favorites of the sky
5 With more of happiness below,
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek, contented head?
What happy region dost thou please
10 To make the seat of calms and ease?

Ambition searches all its sphere

Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. Encreasing avarice would find Thy presence in its gold enshrin’d. 15 The bold adventurer ploughs his way Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, To gain thy love; and then perceives Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. The silent heart, which grief assails, 20 Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales. Sees daisies open, rivers run,

And seeks, as I have vainly done,
Amusing thought, but learns to know
That solitude's the nurse of woe.
25 No real happiness is found

In trailing purple o'er the ground;1
Or in a soul exalted high,

To range the circuit of the sky, Converse with stars above, and know 30 All Nature in its forms below;

The rest it seeks, in seeking dies,
And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise.
Lovely, lasting peace, appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,

1 in wearing the purple robes of royalty