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ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM
[Left unfinished by Mr. Gray. With Additions, in Italics, by the late
Rev. Mr. Mason.]
Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
She wooes the tardy Spring :
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet; Forgetful of their wintry trance
The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the Sky-Lark warbles high
Rise, my Soul! on wings of fire,
Rise the rapt'rous Choir among; ; Hark! 'tis Nature strikes the Lyre,
And leads the general song: Warm let the lyric transport flow, Warm as
that bids it glow; And animates the vernal
grove With health, with harmony, and love.
Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by : Their raptures now that wildly flow, No yesterday, nor morrow know; 'Tis Man alone that joy descries With forward, and reverted eyes.
Smiles on past Misfortune's brow
Soft Reflection's hand can trace; And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace; While Hope prolongs our happier hour, Or deepest shades, that dimly lower And blacken round our weary way, Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy Pleasure leads,
See a kindred Grief pursue;
Approaching Comfort view:
See the Wretch, that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain, At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe, and walk again:
The meanest floweret of the vale,
Humble Quiet builds her cell,
Near the source whence Pleasure flows; She eyes the clear crystalline * well,
And tastes it as it goes.
Mark where Indolence, and Pride,
Sooth'd by Flattery's tinkling sound,
Their dull, but daily round:
* So Milton accents the word:
Par, Lost, Book vi. v. 772.