 | Poems upon various subjects |  |
135
ON THE AUTHOR's BIRTH-DAY.
Now six and thirty rapid years are fled,
Since I began, nor yet begin, to live;
Painful reflection! to look back I dread,
What hope, alas! can looking forward give!
Since I began, nor yet begin, to live;
Painful reflection! to look back I dread,
What hope, alas! can looking forward give!
Day urges day, and year succeeds to year,
While hoary age steals unperceiv'd along;
Summer is come, and yet no fruits appear,
My joys a dream, my works an idle song.
While hoary age steals unperceiv'd along;
Summer is come, and yet no fruits appear,
My joys a dream, my works an idle song.
Ah me! I fondly thought, Apollo shone
With beams propitious on my natal hour;
Fair was my morn, but now at highest noon
Shades gather round, and clouds begin to lour.
With beams propitious on my natal hour;
Fair was my morn, but now at highest noon
Shades gather round, and clouds begin to lour.
136
Yes, on thy natal hour, the God replies,
I shone propitious, and the Muses smil'd;
Blame not the pow'rs, they gave thee wings to rise,
But earth thou lov'st, by low delights beguil'd.
I shone propitious, and the Muses smil'd;
Blame not the pow'rs, they gave thee wings to rise,
But earth thou lov'st, by low delights beguil'd.
Possessing wealth, beyond a Poet's lot,
Thou the dull track of lucre hast prefer'd,
For contemplation form'd and lofty thought,
Thou meanly minglest with the vulgar herd.
Thou the dull track of lucre hast prefer'd,
For contemplation form'd and lofty thought,
Thou meanly minglest with the vulgar herd.
True Bards select and sacred to the Nine
Listen not thus to pleasure's warbling lays;
Nor on the downy couch of ease recline,
Severe their lives, abstemious are their days.
Listen not thus to pleasure's warbling lays;
Nor on the downy couch of ease recline,
Severe their lives, abstemious are their days.
Oh! born for nobler ends, dare to be wise,
'Tis not e'en now too late, assert thy claim;
Rugged the path, that leads up to the skies,
But the fair guerdon is immortal fame.
'Tis not e'en now too late, assert thy claim;
Rugged the path, that leads up to the skies,
But the fair guerdon is immortal fame.
| Poems upon various subjects | |