Ev'n Lust, the master of a harden'd face,

Blushes, if thou be'st in the place,

To Darkness' curtains he retires ; In sympathizing night he rolls his smoky fires. When, Goddess ! thou lift'st up thy waken'd head,

Out of the morning's purple bed,

Thy quire of birds about thee play, And all the joyful world salutes the rising day. The ghosts, and monster-spirits, that did presunie

A body's privilege to assume,

Vanish again invisibly,
And bodies gain again their visibility,
All the world's bravery, that delights our eyes,

Is but thy several liveries ;

Thou the rich dye on thém bestow'st, Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go'st, A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st;

A crown of studded gold thou bear'st;

The virgin-lilies, in their white, Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light. The violet, Spring's little infant, stands

Girt in thy purple swaddling-bands :

On the fair tulip thou dost doat; Thou cloth'st it in a gay and parti-colour'd coat. With flame condens'd thou dost thy jewels fix,

And solid colours in it mix :

Flora herself envies to see Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she. Ah, Goddess! would thou couldst thy hand withhold,

And be less liberal to gold !

Didst thou less value to it give, Of how much care, alas! might'st thou poor man

relieve! To me the sun is more delightful far,

And all fair days much fairer are.

But few, ah! wondrous few, there be, Who do not gold prefer, O Goddess ! ev'n to thee. Through the soft ways of heaven, and air, and sea,

Which open all their pores to thee,

Like a clear river thou dost glide, And with thy living stream through the close

channels slide. But, where firm bodies thy free course oppose,

Gently thy source the land o'erflows;

Takes there possession, and does make, Of colours mingled light, a thick and standing lake. But the vast ocean of unbounded day

In th' empyræan heaven does stay.

Thy rivers, lakes, and springs, below, From thence took first their rise, thither at last

must flow.

LIFE AND FAME.
OH, Life! thou Nothing's younger brother!

So like, that one might take one for the other!

What's somebody, or nobody?
In all the cobwebs of the schoolmen's trade,
We no such nice distinction woven see,

As 't is “to be," or “ not to be."
: Dream of a shadow! a reflection made
From the false glories of the gay reflected bow

Is a more solid thing than thou. Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise

Up betwixt two eternities!

Yet canst nor wave nor wind sustain, But, broken and o'erwhelm’d, the endless oceans

meet again.
And with what rare inventions do we strive

Ourselves then to survive?
Wise, subtle arts, and such as well befit

That Nothing Man's no wit-
Some with vast costly tombs would purchase it,
And by the proofs of death pretend to live.

“Here lies the great”-false marble! where? Nothing but small and sordid dust lies there. Some build enormous mountain-palaces,

The fools and architects to please;
A lasting life in well-hewn stone they rear :

So he, who on th' Egyptian shore
Was slain so many hundred years before,
Lives still (oh Life! most happy and most dear!
Oh Life! that epicures envy to hear !)
Lives in the dropping ruins of his amphitheatre.
His father-in-law an higher place does claim
In the seraphick entity of fame;

He, since that toy his death, Does fill all mouths, and breathes in all men's breath. T is true, the two immortal syllables remain;

But oh, ye learned men! explain

What essence, what existence, this,
What substance, what subsistence, what hypostasis,

In six poor letters is !
In those alone does the great Cæsar live,

'T is all the conquer'd world could give.

We Poets, madder yet than all,
With a refin'd fantastick vanity,
Think we not only have, but give, eternity.

Fain would I see that prodigal,

Who his to-morrow would bestow, For all old Homer's life, e'er since he dy'd, till now!

ODE.

OF SOLITUDE.

HAIL, old patrician trees, so great and good !

Hail, ye plebeian underwood !
Where the poetic birds rejoice,
And for their quiet nests and plenteous food

Pay, with their grateful voice.

Hail, the poor Muses' richest manor-seat;

Ye country-houses and retreat,

Which all the happy gods so love, That for you oft they quit their bright and great

Metropolis above.

Here Nature does a house for me erect,

Nature, the wisest architect,

Who those fond artists does despise That can the fair and living trees neglect;

Yet the dead timber prize.

Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying,

Hear the soft winds, above me flying,

With all their wanton boughs dispute,
And the more tuneful birds to both replying,

Nor be myself, too, mute.
A silver stream shall roll his waters near,

Gilt with the sun-beams here and there;

On whose enamel'd bank I'll walk,
And see how prettily they smile, and hear

How prettily they talk.
Ah wretched and too solitary he,

Who loves not his own company !

He'll feel the weight of't many a day,
Unless he call in sin or vanity

To help to bear 't away.
Oh Solitude, first state of human kind!

Which bless'd remain’d, till man did find

Ev'n his own helper's company. As soon as two, alas' together join’d,

The serpent made up three. Though God himself, through countless ages, thee

His sole companion chose to be,

Thee, sacred Solitude, alone,
Before the branchy head of number's tree

Sprang from the trunk of one.

Thou (though men think thine an unactive part)

Dost break and time th' upruly heart,

Which else would know no settled pace,
Making it move, well-manag'd by thy art,

With swiftness and with grace.
Thou the faint beams of reason's scatter'd light

Dost, like a burning-glass, unite ;

Dost multiply the feeble heat,
And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright

And noble fires beget.
Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks, I see

The monster London laugh at me;

I should at thee too, foolish city!
If it were fit to laugh at misery ;

But thy estate I pity.
Let but thy wicked men from out thee go,

And all the fools that crowd thee so,

Even thou, who dost thy millions boast, A village less than Islington wilt grow,

A solitude almost.

ODE

UPON LIBERTY. FREEDOM with Virtue takes her seat;

Her proper place, her only scene, Is in the golden mean, She lives not with the poor nor with the great. The wings of those Necessity has clipt,

And they're in Fortune's bridewell whipt

To the laborious task of bread;
These are by various tyrants captive led.
Now wild Ambition with imperious force
Rides, reins, and spurs, them, like th' unruly horse;

And servile Avarice yokes them now,
Like toilsome oxen, to the plough;