Curb'd beneath his harsh controul
The blissful passions fly the soul.

You the gentler sons of Joy
Softer studies shall employ !
He to curb the passions tries
You shall bid them all arise,
His wants he wishes to destroy
You shall all your wants enjoy.
Let the Laurel, Virtue's meed
Crown his age-besilver'd head,
The verdant laurel ever grows
Amid the sullen winter's snows:
Let the Rose the flower of bliss
The soft unwrinkled temples kiss,
Fann'd by the Zephyr's balmy wing
The odorous Rose adorns the Spring.

Let the Patriot die to raise
A lasting monument of praise,
Ah fool, to tear the glowing rose
From the mirth-encircled brows,
That around his dusky tomb

The ever verdant bay may bloom!

Let Ambition's sons alone

Bow around the tottering throne,
Fly at Glory's splendid rays,

And moth-like die amidst a blaze,
You shall bow and bow alone

Before delicious Beauty's throne.

Lo! Theora treads the green,

All breathing grace and harmony she moves
Fair as the mother of the Loves.

In graceful ringlets floats her golden hair.
From the bright azure of her eye

Expression's liquid lightnings fly,
Her cheek is fair,

Fair as the Lily when at dawning day

Tinged with the morning's bright and purple ray.

Yonder scented groves among

She will listen to your song,

In yonder bower where roses bloom
Where the myrtle breathes perfume,
You shall at your ease recline

And sip the soul-enlivening wine,

There the lyre with melting lay
Shall bid the soul dissolve away.
Soft as the morning sheds her purple light
Thro' the dark azure of the night,
So soft the God of Slumber sheds
His roseate dews around your heads.

Such the blessings I bestow,

Haste my Sons these blessings know!
Behold the flowrets of the Spring
They wanton in the zephyrs wing,
They drink the matin ether blue,
They sip the fragrant evening dew;
Man is but a short-lived flower,

His bloom but for a changeful hour!
Pass a little time away,

The rosy cheek is turn'd to clay,

No living joys, no transports burn
In the dark sepulcral urn,

No Laurels crown the fleshless brows,

They fade together with the Rose.

D. 1796.

To INDOLENCE.

I do not woo thy presence, INDOLENCE ! Goddess, I would not rank

A votary in thy train.

I will not ask to wear thy fett'ring flowers, O thou on whose cold lips

Faint plays the heartless smile!

Pale, sickly as the unkindly shaded fruit,

Thy languid cheek displays

No sunny hues of health;

There is no radiance in thy listless eye,

No active joy that fires

It's sudden glance with life.

I do not wish upon thy downy couch,
As in a conscious dream,

To doze away the hours,

Dead to all noble purposes of man,
Useless among mankind,

To live, unworthy life.

But to thy sister LEISURE I would pour

The supplicating prayer,

And woo her aid benign:

Nymph, on whose

sunny cheek the hue of health

Blooms like the ruddy fruit

Matur'd by Southern rays;

Whose eye beam sparkles to the speaking heart,

Like the reflected noon

Quick glancing on the waves.

Her would I pray that not for ever thus

The ungentle voice of toil

Might claim my daily task.