 | Miscellanies (1785) |  |
ODE TO THE SUN.
I.
God of the Vase;—bright Guardian of the Urn;To thee with conscious gratitude we turn,
By thee, our tender garlands grow,
Our laurels shoot, our mirtles blow;
By thee our Priestess forms her bower,
Invoking still thy genial power.
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II.
Thine, Phæbus, is the sparkling thought,The radiant verse, the glowing strain;
From thee is inspiration caught,
And thine the sunshine of the brain.
III.
To thee belongs the dapled Dawn,Noon's burnish'd beam and fervid flush;
To thee the many-colour'd Morn,
Twilight's last tinge, and Evening's parting blush.
IV.
To thee belong the tender babes of Spring,When the first down implumes the warbler's wing;
The gorgeous Summer's rich expanse is thine,
When scarce a breeze dare touch thy burning shrine;
The various Autumn wooes thy gentler power,
And, lingring, keeps for thee the latest flower.
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And begs the blessing of a casual ray.
Frost too, for thee, climbs up the mountain's brow,
And bends before thee in his robe of snow.
V.
In each gradation of thy course,From the grey moment thour't on horse,
E'en till the radiant journey's run,
And thy diurnal travel's done,
How like, O Sun, how like art thou to Man!
How like the little wretch, that plays
Its gambols in thy warming blaze
Thro' Life's contracted span!
VI.
When bursting forth from sealing night,The infant's eye first feels the light,
Uncertain is its day;
Some human frost may haply come,
And drop it in th' oblivious tomb,
To quench its short-liv'd ray.
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The beauties beaming on thy brow,
Oft doth a gather'd gloom invade
And wrap the sunshine in the shade.
VII.
Or should kind Fate the infant spare,And paint, like thine, the morning fair;
In æther light, it treads like thee,
And frolic youth enjoys it jubilee.
The pulses all accordant play,
The passions wanton in their May;
And the heart dances up to manhood's day.
VIII.
Intensely then it glows, it burns,Like thee, is hot and cold, by turns,
But soon the fierce effulgence fades,
And hastens on the Evening shades;
As thine, his noon-tide vigour dies,
And the keen sun beams leave the mortal skies.
The hey-day of the heat is o'er,
And passion's storm is heard no more;
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Falls fast upon the race of men;
Dim and more dim, each object meets our sight,
And our declining orb sinks at th' approach of night.
Another glimmering moment yet,
And Man's uncertain Sun is wholly set.
| Miscellanies (1785) | |