But Nature is a always gay,
Dangling his cane about, and taking snuff, Lothario cries, What philosophic stuffOh, querulous and weak!-whose useless brain Once thought of nothing, and now thinks in vain'; Whose eye, reverted, weeps o'er all the past, Whose prospect shows thee a disheart'ning waste;
Would age in thee resign his wintry reign,
And youth invigorate that frame again,
Renew'd desire would grace with other speech
Joys always priz'd-when plac'd within our reach.
For lift thy palsied head, shake off the gloom
That overhangs the borders of thy tomb,
See nature, gay as when she first began,
With smiles alluring her admirer man;
She spreads the morning over eastern hills;
Earth glitters with the drops the night distils;
The sun obedient, at her call appears
To fling his glories o'er the robe she wears;
Banks cloth'd with flow'rs, groves fill'd with sprightly
The yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rising grounds,
and spreads her Blessings liberally before us.
Streams edg'd with osiers, fatt'ning ev'ry field
Where'er they flow, now seen and now conceal'd;
From the blue rim where skies and mountains meet,
Down to the very turf beneath thy feet,
Ten thousand charms, that only fools despise,
Or pride can look at with indiffrent eyes,
All speak one language, all with one sweet voice,
Cry to her universal realm, Rejoice!
Man feels the spur of passions and desires,
And she gives largely more than he requires ;
Not that, his hours devoted all to care,
Hollow-ey'd abstinence, and lean despair,
The wretch may pine while to his smell, taste, sight, She holds a paradise of rich delight;
But gently to rebuke his awkward fear,
To prove that what she gives she gives sincere,
To banish hesitation, and proclaim
His happiness, her dear, her only aim.
"Tis grave philosophy's absurdest dream,
That heav'n's intentions are not what they seem,
That only shadows are dispens'd below,
And earth has no reality but woe.
Thus things terrestrial wear a diff'rent hue,
As youth or age persuades; and neither true :
So Flora's wreath through colour'd crystal seen,
The rose or lily appears blue or green,
But still th' imputed tints are those alone
The medium represents, and not their own.
To rise at noon, sit slipshod and undress'd,
To read the news, or fiddle, as seems best,
'Till half the world comes rattling at his door,
To fill the dull vacuity 'till four;
And, just when ev'ning turns the blue vault gray,
To spend two hours in dressing for the day;
To make the sun a bauble without use,
Save for the fruits his heav'nly beams produce;
Quite to forget, or deem it worth no thought,
Who bids him shine, or if he shine or not;
Through mere necessity to close his eyes
Just when the larks and when the shepherds rise;
a dull Rotation of Insipidity.
Is such a life, so tediously the same,
So void of all utility or aim,
That poor JONQUIL, with almost ev'ry breath,
Sighs for his exit, vulgarly call'd death :
For he, with all his follies, has a mind
Not yet so blank, or fashionably blind,
But now and then, perhaps, a feeble ray
Of distant wisdom shoots across his way,
By which he reads, that life without a plan,
As useless as the moment it began,
Serves merely as a soil for discontent
To thrive in; an incumbrance, ere half spent.
Oh! weariness beyond what asses feel,
That tread the circuit of the cistern wheel;
A dull rotation, never at a stay,
Yesterday's face twin image of to-day;
While conversation, an exhausted stock,
Grows drowsy as the clicking of a clock.
No need, he cries, of gravity stuff'd out
With academic dignity devout,
Hope is the Comfort of Mankind.
To read wise lectures-vanity the text!
Proclaim the remedy, ye learned, next;
For truth, self-evident, with pomp impress'd,
Is vanity surpassing all the rest.
That remedy, not hid in deeps profound, Yet seldom sought where only to be found, While passion turns aside from its due scope Th' inquirer's aim-that remedy is hope. Life is his gift, from whom whate'er life needs, With ev'ry good and perfect gift, proceeds; Bestow'd on man, like all that we partake, Royally, freely, for his bounty sake; Transient indeed, as is the fleeting hour, And yet the seed of an immortal flow'r; Design'd, in honour of his endless love, To fill with fragrance his abode above; No trifle, howsoever short it seem, And, howsoever shadowy, no dream; Its value, what no thought can ascertain, Nor all an angel's eloquence explain.
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