He swells amidst his wealthy store,
And proudly poising what he weighs
In his own scale he fondly lays,
Huge heaps of shining ore.
He spreads the balance wide to hold
His manors and his farms,
And cheats the beam with loads of gold He hugs between his arms.
So might the plough-boy climb a tree,
When Croesus mounts his throne,
And both stand up, and smile to see
How long their shadow's grown.
Alas! how vain their fancies be,
To think that shape their own!
Thus mingled still with wealth and state,
Croesus himself can never know;
His true dimensions and his weight
Are far inferior to their show.
Were I so tall to reach the pole,
Or grasp the ocean with my span,
I must be measur'd by my soul :
The mind's the standard of the man.
The midnight moon serenely smiles
O'er nature's soft repose;
No low'ring cloud obscures the sky,
No ruffling tempest blows.
Now ev'ry passion sinks to rest,
The throbbing heart lies still;
And varying schemes of life no more
Distract the lab'ring will.
In silence hush'd, to Reason's voice
Attends each mental pow'r;
Come, dear Emilia, and enjoy
Reflection's fav'rite hour.
Come; while the peaceful scene invites,
Let's search this ample round, Where shall the lovely fleeting form Of happiness be found?
Does it amidst the frolic mirth
Of gay assemblies dwell?
Or hide beneath the solemn gloom,
That shades the Hermit's cell?
How oft the laughing brow of joy,
A sick'ning heart conceals!
And thro' the cloister's deep recess,
Invading sorrow steals.
In vain through beauty, fortune, wit, The fugitive we trace;
It dwells not in the faithless smile, That brighten's Clodio's face.
Perhaps the joy to these deny'd,
The heart in friendship finds :
Ah! dear delusion, gay conceit
Of visionary minds!
Howe'er our varying notions rove,
Yet all agree in one,
To place its being in some state,
At distance from our own.
O blind to each indulgent aim,
Of pow'r supremely wise;
Who fancy happiness is ought
The hand of heav'n denies ;
Vain is a like the joy we seek,
And vain what we possess,
Unless harmonious reason tunes
The passions into peace.
To temper'd wishes, just desires,
Is happiness confin'd;
And, deaf to folly's call, attends
The music of the mind.
A tear bedews my Delia's eye,
To think yon playful kid must die,
From chrystal spring, and flowery mead,
Must, in his prime of life, recede!
Erewhile, in sportive circles round
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound; From rock to rock pursue his way,
And, on the fearful margin, play.
Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell;
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravish'd at the sight.
She tells, with what delight he stood,
To trace his features in the flood:
Then skip'd aloof with quaint amaze;
And then draw near again to gaze.
She tells me how with eager speed
He flew to hear my vocal reed;
And how with critic face profound,
And stedfast ear, devour'd the sound.
His every frolic, light as air,
Deserves the gentle Delia's care;
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful kid must die.-
But knows my Delia, timely wise,
How soon this blameless æra flies?
While violence and craft succeed:
Unfair design, and ruthless deed!
Soon would the vine his wounds deplore,
And yield her purple gifts no more;
Ah soon, eras'd from every grove
Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love.
No more those bowers might Strephon see,
Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee;
No more those beds of flowrets find,
Which for thy charming brows he twin'd.
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