And whilst I wish to be retired, The salamander should be burn'd: Or, like those sophists who would drown a fish, I am condemn'd to suffer what I wish. The cynic hugs his poverty, Naked on frosty Caucasus: I'm in this cabinet lock'd up, Like some high-prized Margarite; And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee! These manacles upon mine arm, I have some iron shackles there :- Thus he that struck at Jason's life, Did only wound him to his cure: Malice, we see, wants wit for what is meant ; Mischief oft-times proves favour by the event. Altho' I cannot see my king, That renders what I have not mine:- Have you not heard the nightingale, A prisoner close kept in a cage, How she doth chaunt her woeful tale In that her narrow hermitage?Ev'n that her melody doth plainly prove, Her boughs are trees, her cage a pleasant grove. I am that bird which they combine Thus to deprive of liberty; And though my corpse they can confine, My soul is free as is the ambient air What tho' they do with chains my body bind, THE GARLAND. A SONG. THE pride of ev'ry grove I chose, At morn, the nymph vouchsaf'd to place The flow'rs she wore along the day; And ev'ry nymph and shepherd said, Than glowing in their native bed. Undrest at ev'ning, when she found Their colours lost, their odours past, She chang'd her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast. That eye dropt sense distinct and clear, Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well— She sigh'd, she smil'd; and to the flow'rs Ah, me! the blooming pride of May, Both fade at ev❜ning, pale and gone. At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung, Such as she is who died to day, Prior. ON A TUFT OF EARLY VIOLETS. SWEET flowers! that from your humble beds And trust your unprotected heads Retire, retire! these tepid airs Are not the genial breath of May; That sun with warmth malignant glares, And flatters only to betray. Stern Winter's reign is not yet past, Lo! while your buds prepare to blow, On icy pinions comes the blast, And nips your root, and lays you low. Alas, from such ungentle doom! But I will shield you; and supply A kindlier soil on which to bloom, A nobler bed on which to die. P |