« ForrigeFortsett »
The well inform'd philosopher
And hopes, in spite of pain;
And Nature laughs again.
Expect a brighter sky.
And lays his arrows by.
And let thy strength be seen;
Reflection on the foregoing Ode.
ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED
IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES.
'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Her conscious tail her joy declar'd ;
The velvet of her paws,
She saw; and purr'd applause.
The genii of the stream:
Betray'd a golden gleam.
With many an ardent wish,
What cat's averse to fish ?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Nor knew the gulf between :
She tumbled headlong in.
Some speedy aid to send.
A fav’rite has no friend!
And be with caution bold.
Nor all that glisters gold.
FALSE FRIENDS AND TRUE.*
As it fell upon a day
* This poem, from its excellence, has been attributed to Shakspeare.
And there sung the doleful'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie, nor would she cry; Teru, teru, by and by; That to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain ; For her griefs, so lively shown, Made me think upon mine own. Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain ; None takes pity on thy pain : Sepseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee. King Pandion, he is dead; All thy friends are lapp'd in lead ; All thy fellow-birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing! Whilst, as fickle Fortune smil'd, Thou and I were both beguil'd. Every one that flatters thee Is no friend in misery. Words are easy like the wind ; Faithful friends are hard to find, Every man will be thy friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ; But if store of crowns be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one be prodigal, Bountiful they will him call ; And with such like flattering, * Pity but he were a king.' If he be addict to vice, Quickly him they will entice; If to women he be bent, They have at commandement;
But if fortune once do frown,
TO THE MOON.
Thou silent Moon, that look'st so pale,
So much exhausted, and so faint, Wandering over hill and dale,
Watching oft the kneeling saintHearing his groans float on the galeNo wonder thou art tir'd and pale.
Yet have I often seen thee bring
Thy beams o'er yon bare mountain's steep i Then, with a smile, their lustre fling
Full on the dark and roaring deep; When the pilgrim's heart did fail, And when near lost the tossing sail.
Sure, that passing blush deceives;
For thou, fair nymph, art chaste and cold ! Love our bosoms seldom leaves;
But thou art of a different mould.