Who never can seem to intrude, Though in all places equally free, Come, oft as the season is rude, Thou art sure to be welcome to me. At sight of the first feeble ray That pierces the clouds of the east, To inveigle thee every day My windows shall show thee a feast: Thou wilt pay me with many a song. Then, soon as the swell of the buds Or where it shall please thee to sing: Only pay as thou pay'dst me before. Thus music must needs be confess'd Unchangeable friendship and love? That can be delighted by sound, Or boasts any musical powers? XII. STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE. THE shepherd touch'd his reed; sweet Philomel The numbers, echo'd note for note again. The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before And soon (for various was his tuneful store) She dared the task, and, rising as he rose, Thus strength, not skill, prevail'd. O fatal strife, And, O sad victory, which cost thy life, And he may wish that he had never won! XIII. ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY, WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1728. ANCIENT dame, how wide and vast, To a race like ours, appears, Rounded to an orb at last, All thy multitude of years! We, the herd of human kind, Frailer, and of feebler powers; We, to narrow bounds confined, Soon exhaust the sum of ours. Death's delicious banquet-we Seeds of merciless disease Lurk in all that we enjoy ; Some that waste us by degrees, Some that suddenly destroy. And, if life o'erleap the bourn Fast as moons can wax and wane, Pant with anguish, and complain, If a few (to few 'tis given), Wherefore live they, but to see Holding their accustom'd course? Oft was seen, in ages past, All that we with wonder view; Often shall be to the last; Earth produces nothing new. Thee we gratulate, content Should propitious Heaven design Life for us as calmly spent, Though but half the length of thine. XIV. THE CAUSE WON. Two neighbours furiously dispute; Defendant thus becomes a name, XV. THE SILKWORM. THE beams of April, ere it goes, He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins; Careless around him and around, Conceals him with a veil, though slight, And, though a worm when he was lost, Or caterpillar at the most, When next we see him, wings he wears, With future worms and future flies The next ensuing year—and dies! Well were it for the world, if all Who creep about this earthly ball, Though shorter-lived than most he be, Were useful in their kind as he. |