« ForrigeFortsett »
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
The untaught harmony of Spring :
Their gather'd fragrance fling,
Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade ;
O’er-canopies the glade * : :
Shakesp. Midf. Night's Dream. (At ease reclin'd in ruftic ftate) How vain the ardour of the Crowd, How low, how little are the Proud,
How indigent the Great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care :
The panting herds repose :
The busy murmur glows !
And float amid the liquid noon* :
Quick-glancing to the sun to,
* “ Nare per æftatem liquidam
Virgil. Georg. lib. 4. +
sporting with quick glance Shew to the fun their.wav'd coats dropt with
Milton's Paradise Lost, book 7,
To Contemplations sober eye *
Such is the race of Man :
Shall end where they began.
In Fortune's varying colours drest:
They leave, in duft to rest.
Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply:
A solitary fly!
* While insects from the threshold preach, &c.
M. Green, in the Grotto. Dodfley's Miscellanies, [Lond. Edit.] Vol. V. p. 861.