 | Original Poems and Translations |  |
31
THE DEATH of the LARK.
1738.
The golden sun, emerging from the main,
Beams a blue lustre on the dewy plain;
Elate with joy all creatures hail his rise,
That haunt the forest, or that skim the skies.
Gay-blooming flow'rs their various charms renew,
A breathing fragrance, or a lovely hue:
Sweet pipes the shepherd, the fair morn to greet,
To his stout team the ploughman whistles sweet.
All Nature smiles around. On airy wing
The Lark, harmonious herald of the spring,
Rises aloft to breath his mattins loud
On the bright bosom of some fleecy cloud.
Ah! little conscious that he dies to-day,
He sports his hour in innocence away,
And from the treble of his tuneful throat
Pours the soft strain, or trills the sprightly note;
Or calls his mate, and as he sweetly sings,
Soars in the sun-beam, wavering on his wings.
The ruthless fowler, with unerring aim,
Points the dire tube—forth streams the sudden flame:
Swift in hoarse thunder flies the leaden wound,
The rigid rocks return the murdering sound;
The strains unfinish'd with the warbler die,
Float into air, and vanish in the sky.
Beams a blue lustre on the dewy plain;
Elate with joy all creatures hail his rise,
That haunt the forest, or that skim the skies.
Gay-blooming flow'rs their various charms renew,
A breathing fragrance, or a lovely hue:
Sweet pipes the shepherd, the fair morn to greet,
To his stout team the ploughman whistles sweet.
All Nature smiles around. On airy wing
The Lark, harmonious herald of the spring,
Rises aloft to breath his mattins loud
On the bright bosom of some fleecy cloud.
Ah! little conscious that he dies to-day,
He sports his hour in innocence away,
And from the treble of his tuneful throat
Pours the soft strain, or trills the sprightly note;
32
Soars in the sun-beam, wavering on his wings.
The ruthless fowler, with unerring aim,
Points the dire tube—forth streams the sudden flame:
Swift in hoarse thunder flies the leaden wound,
The rigid rocks return the murdering sound;
The strains unfinish'd with the warbler die,
Float into air, and vanish in the sky.
Thus oft, fond man, rejoicing in his might,
Sports in the sunshine of serene delight;
Fate comes unseen, and snaps the thin-spun thread,
He dies, and sleeps forgotten with the dead.
Sports in the sunshine of serene delight;
Fate comes unseen, and snaps the thin-spun thread,
He dies, and sleeps forgotten with the dead.
| Original Poems and Translations | |