 | The Works of Mr. Henry Needler |  |
7
HORACE. Book IV. Ode VII. Paraphras'd.
See! Spring's return'd; the budding Leaves appear,
And blooming Flow'rs adorn the new-born Year;
The Hills their hoary Robes of fleecy Snow.
Throw off, and clad in chearful Verdure show:
The Silver Floods contract their ebbing Tide,
And with abated Streams in narrower Channels glide.
Now gentle Gales invite the Nymphs and Swains,
To trip in rustic Dances o'er the Plains;
The joyous Birds their tuneful Ditties sing,
And with glad Notes salute the smiling Spring.
And blooming Flow'rs adorn the new-born Year;
The Hills their hoary Robes of fleecy Snow.
Throw off, and clad in chearful Verdure show:
The Silver Floods contract their ebbing Tide,
And with abated Streams in narrower Channels glide.
Now gentle Gales invite the Nymphs and Swains,
To trip in rustic Dances o'er the Plains;
The joyous Birds their tuneful Ditties sing,
And with glad Notes salute the smiling Spring.
The winged Hours, that measure out the Day,
Admonish us of mould'ring Life's Decay,
And prompt us to enjoy it while we may.
Admonish us of mould'ring Life's Decay,
And prompt us to enjoy it while we may.
Soft Vernal Warmth the Winter's Cold succeeds;
Then Summer's scorching Heat deforms the Meads;
Next Autumn crowns with golden Sheaves the Fields,
'Till to fierce Winter's Rage his Empire yields.
Then Summer's scorching Heat deforms the Meads;
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'Till to fierce Winter's Rage his Empire yields.
Thus all things change in a successive Round,
And nothing long in the same State is found.
The Seasons pass away, but come again;
Nor Spring, nor Winter holds Eternal Reign:
But we, when once dispatch'd to Shades below,
For Ever no Return to Light must know.
The Gates of Death do freely all receive,
But no Regress, to those that enter, give.
How soon our Lot may fall, there's none can say,
Perhaps our last, may be this present Day.
And nothing long in the same State is found.
The Seasons pass away, but come again;
Nor Spring, nor Winter holds Eternal Reign:
But we, when once dispatch'd to Shades below,
For Ever no Return to Light must know.
The Gates of Death do freely all receive,
But no Regress, to those that enter, give.
How soon our Lot may fall, there's none can say,
Perhaps our last, may be this present Day.
Whatever with penurious Mind you spare,
Will only serve t'enrich a greedy Heir.
When once th' inevitable Hour is come,
At which thou must receive thy final Doom;
Thy Noble Birth, thy Eloquence Divine,
And shining Piety shall nought encline
The stubborn Will of unrelenting Fate,
To give thy fleeting Life a longer Date:
Thy weak Attempts will all be found in vain,
To change the fixt Decree, or a Reprieve to gain.
Will only serve t'enrich a greedy Heir.
When once th' inevitable Hour is come,
At which thou must receive thy final Doom;
Thy Noble Birth, thy Eloquence Divine,
And shining Piety shall nought encline
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To give thy fleeting Life a longer Date:
Thy weak Attempts will all be found in vain,
To change the fixt Decree, or a Reprieve to gain.
| The Works of Mr. Henry Needler | |