50 55 60 65 70 The thoughtless day, the easy night, That fly th' approach of morn. Alas, regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day; Yet see how all around 'em wait And black Misfortune's baleful train! These shall the fury Passions tear, The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, That inly gnaws the secret heart, Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, And grinning Infamy, The stings of Falsehood those shall try, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defiled, And moody Madness laughing wild Lo! in the vale of tears beneath A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their queen. This racks the joints, this fires the veins, Those in the deeper vitals rage; Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming Age. To each his sufferings; all are men, Condemned alike to groan, The tender for another's pain, The unfeeling for his own. 75 80 85 90 Yet ah! why should they know their fate? 95 And happiness too swiftly flies. 5 ΤΟ 15 20 ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT 'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed Gazed on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declared; The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Still had she gazed; but 'midst the tide The Genii of the stream; Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue The hapless nymph with wonder saw; With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize. What Cat's averse to fish? Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Eight times emerging from the flood. Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred; Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A fav'rite has no friend! 25 30 35 From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes 40 Nor all, that glisters, gold. ΤΟ ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 5 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those ragged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 15 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 20 The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. |