These never knew a noble flame, Let When the inviting Spring appears, Let others, nobler, seek to gain But I, resolved from within, In privacy intend to spin And from this hermitage of mine Shall dare to tempt my joys. There are below but two things good, And only those of all I would In this retir'd and humble seat, SONG XVI. A MORAL THOUGHT. BY DR. HAWKESWORTH. THROUGH groves sequester'd, dark, and still, Low vales, and mossy cells among, In silent paths the careless rill, Which languid murmurs, steals along. Awhile it plays with circling sweep, And lingering leaves its native plain; Then pours impetuous down the steep, And mingles with the boundless main. O let my years thus devious glide Through silent scenes obscurely calm, Nor wealth nor strife pollute the tide, Nor honour's sanguinary palm. When labour tires, and pleasure palls, Still let the stream untroubled be, As down the steep of age it falls, SONG XVII. TO IDLENESS. BY MR. CHRISTOPHER SMART. GODDESS of ease, leave Lethe's brink, Sister of Peace and Indolence, Bring, Muse, bring numbers soft and slow : Elaborately void of sense, And sweetly thoughtless let them flow. Near to some cowslip-painted mead, A sofa of the softest flowers. Where, Philomel, your notes you breathe Forth from behind the neighb'ring pine; While murmurs of the stream beneath Still flow in unison with thine. For thee, O Idleness! the woes Thou art the source whence labour flows, For who'd sustain war's toil and waste, And find a pleasing end in thee? SONG XVIII. BY HARRY CAREY.* FROM the court to the cottage convey me away, And pomp without pleasure, Make life in a circle of hurry decay. * He entitles this Mrs. Stuart's Retirement.' Far remote and retir'd from the noise of the town, I'll exchange my brocade for a plain russet gown; My friends shall be few, But well chosen and true, And sweet recreation our evening shall crown. With a rural repast, a rich banquet for me, Shall afford me my drink, And Temp'rance my friendly physician shall be. Ever calm and serene, with contentment still blest, Not too giddy with joy, or with sorrow deprest, I'll neither invoke, Or repine at Death's stroke, But retire from the world as I would to my rest. PRINCES that rule, and empire sway, How transitory is their state! Sorrows their glories do allay, And richest crowns have greatest weight. The mighty monarch treason fears, Ambitious thoughts within him rave; His life all discontents and cares, * In the tragedy of Alcibiades.' Vainly we think with fond delight And sorrows are each other's heirs. For me, my honour I'll maintain, SONG XX. THE DIRGE. BY DR. HENRY KING, BP. OF CHICHESTER. WHAT is th' existence of man's life? But open war, or slumber'd strife, Till Death's cold hand signs his release. It is a storm, where the hot blood Which beats his bark with many a wave, Till he casts anchor in the grave. |