The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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A MORAL AFTER-THOUGHT ON THE ABOVE. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
A MORAL AFTER-THOUGHT ON THE ABOVE.
DEAR Innocence, where'er thou deign'st to dwell,
The Pleasures sport around thy simple cell;
The song of Nature melts from grove to grove;
Perpetual sunshine sits upon thy vale;
Content and ruddy Health thy hamlet hail,
And Echo waits upon the voice of Love.
The Pleasures sport around thy simple cell;
The song of Nature melts from grove to grove;
Perpetual sunshine sits upon thy vale;
Content and ruddy Health thy hamlet hail,
And Echo waits upon the voice of Love.
But where—but where is scowling Guilt's abode?
The spectred heath, and Danger's cavern'd road;
The shuffling monster treads with panting breath;
The cloud-wrapp'd storm insulting roars around,
Fear pales him at the thunder's awful sound,
He stares with horror on the flash of death.
The spectred heath, and Danger's cavern'd road;
The shuffling monster treads with panting breath;
The cloud-wrapp'd storm insulting roars around,
Fear pales him at the thunder's awful sound,
He stares with horror on the flash of death.
He calls on Darkness with affright,
And bids her pour her deepest night;
Her clouds impenetrable bring,
And hide him with her raven wing!
And bids her pour her deepest night;
Her clouds impenetrable bring,
And hide him with her raven wing!
Are these the pictures? Then I need not muse,
Nor gape, nor ponder which to choose—
O Innocence, this instant I'm thy slave—
What but the greatest fool would be a knave?
Nor gape, nor ponder which to choose—
O Innocence, this instant I'm thy slave—
What but the greatest fool would be a knave?
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |