Classic Poem

Bright Sol had to his Thetis gone,
And Night, her starry Mantle on,
Invited Luna to appear,
And deck with Light the Hemisphere:
The pale-fac'd Goddess, gently 'rose,
And Colin sought his wish'd Repose.
In balmy Sleep the Shepherd lay,
When he, by Fancy led astray,
Imagines, that himself he found
The Owner of a Waste of Ground,
Whereon a stately Palace stood,
Encompass'd by a beauteous Wood.
That busy Crouds of servile Slaves,
And sly insinuating Knaves,
Attend his Nod, and all he says,
Tho' e'er so wrong, they falsely praise;
Admire his Form, his Wit commend,
And each assure him, he's his Friend;
That Flatt'ry is a Thing they scorn,
" But you, my Lord, might Praise adorn. "
(For Colin 's Fancy not confin'd,
Had e'en a Title in his Mind)
Gull'd, by the tinsil'd Words they spoke,
He took the Bait and then awoke.
Again poor Colin — what a Change!
In rustic Weed again to range;
To tend his little Flock once more,
And be the Clown he was before.
This Life, in fact, is but a Dream,
Our Passage to it, just the same;
The Queen — and Peasant's Partner share
An equal Pain, to have an Heir.
While dreaming here, we vary may,
And be (like Colin ) led astray;
In glitt'ring Wealth, and pompous State,
We never think of the Deceit.
But all, in Death, resemble must,
Each turn to his primaeval Dust,
Forget the Dream, says Earth, and be
Again thyself — a Part of me.