And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. SONG ON PEACE FOND SHEPHERDS OF LATE" No longer I follow a sound; No longer a dream I pursue; O Happiness! not to be found, I have sought thee in splendor and dress, An humble ambition and hope The voice of true Wisdom inspires; 'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope, And the summit of all our desires. Peace may be the lot of the mind That seeks in it meekness and love; But rapture and bliss are confined To the glorified spirits above. ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE SUNS that set, and moons that wane, Rise, and are restored again; 35 5 10 15 Stars that orient day subdues, Night at her return renews. Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth 5 Of the genial womb of earth, Still 'tis winter in the tomb. 10 15 EPITAPH ON JOHNSON HERE Johnson lies, a sage by all allowed, Whom to have bred, may well make England proud; Whose verse may claim, grave, masculine, and strong, Superior praise to the mere poet's song; Who many a noble gift from Heaven possessed, O man, immortal by a double prize, 5 10 THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS O Two nymphs, both nearly of an age, A warm dispute once chanced to wage The worth of each had been complete But one, although her smile was sweet, And in her humor, when she frowned, The other was of gentler cast, From all such frenzy clear, Her frowns were seldom known to last, 15 And never proved severe. To poets of renown in song The nymphs referred the cause, Who, strange to tell, all judged it wrong, They gentle called, and kind and soft, 20 And though she changed her mood so oft, No judges, sure, were e'er so mad, In short, the charms her sister had Then thus the god, whom fondly they Was heard, one genial summer's day, "Since thus ye have combined," he said, "The Minx shall, for your folly's sake, Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, YARDLEY OAK° 25 SURVIVOR Sole, and hardly such, of all That once lived here, thy brethren! - at my birth (Since which I number threescore winters past) A shattered veteran, hollow-trunked perhaps, 25 30 335 40 As now, and with excoriate forks deform, It seems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather Druids in their oaks Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet Unpurified by an authentic act Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, 15 Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball, And all thine embryo vastness, at a gulp. Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. 25 So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search 30 5 |