Blest wilt thou prove whilst he eludes thy snares, Outwings thy shafts and no return prepares.
To manhood grown, this bird, which now retires, And shuns thy aim, and thwarts thy fierce desires, Will haste unsought, and, 'spite of bow and dart, Play round thy head, and perch upon thy heart."
O'er the smooth main when scarce a zephyr blows
To break the dark-blue ocean's deep repose,
I. seek the calmness of the breathing shore,
Delighted with the fields and woods no more.
But when, white-foaming, heave the deeps on high,
Swells the black storm, and mingles sea with sky,
Trembling, I fly the wild tempestuous strand,
And seek the close recesses of the land.
Sweet are the sounds that murmur thro' the wood
While roaring storms upheave the dang'rous flood;
Then, if the winds more fiercely howl, they rouse
But sweeter music in the pine's tall boughs.
Hard is the life the weary fisher finds
Who trusts his floating mansion to the winds,
Whose daily food the fickle sea maintains,
Unchanging labour, and uncertain gains.
Be mine soft sleep, beneath the spreading shade
Of some broad leafy plane inglorious laid,
Lull'd by a fountain's fall, that, murmuring near,
Soothes, not alarms, the toil-worn labourer's ear.
From where his silver waters glide,
Majestic, to the ocean-tide
On fair Olympia's plain,
Still his dark course Alpheus keeps
Beneath the mantle of the deeps,
Nor mixes with the main.
To grace his distant bride he pours
The sands of Pisa's sacred shores,
And flow'rs that deck'd her grove; And, rising from the unconscious brine, On Arethusa's breast divine
Receives the meed of Love.
"Tis thus with soft bewitching skill.
The childish god deludes our will,
And triumphs o'er our pride;
The mighty river owns his force,
Bends to the sway his winding course,
And dives beneath the tide.
EPITAPH ON A FRIEND DROWNED AT SEA.
Oh had no venturous keel defied the deep!
Then had not Lycid floated on the brine; For him, the youth beloved, we pass and weep, A name lamented, and an empty shrine.
Cleombrotus, upon the rampart's height,
Bade the bright sun farewell, then plung❜d to night.
The cares of life to him were yet unknown,
Glad were his hours, his sky unclouded shone;
But Plato's reason caught his youthful eye,
And fixed his soul on immortality.
While on soft beds your pillow'd limbs recline,
Dissolved by Bacchus and the Queen of Love,
Remember, Gout's a daughter of that line,
And she'll dissolve them soon, my friend, by Jove!
When Thrasybulus from the embattled field
Was breathless borne to Sparta on his shield,
His honour'd corpse, disfigur'd still with gore
From seven wide wounds (but all receiv'd before),
Upon the pyre his hoary father laid,
And to th' admiring crowd triumphant said,
"Let slaves lament-while I without a tear
"Lay mine and Sparta's son upon his bier."
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