Air! though invited by the Spring and Thee,
In vain I sigh, and struggle to get free;
'Mid smoke and noise, repining, I must stay,
And leave untasted all the sweets of May;
To waste in stifling crowds the fragrant hours,
And lose the year's first shoots, and earliest flowers.
For now the tardy white-thorn blows, and now
The blossom hangs on every orchard-bough:
Earth seems new-born, each blade and leaflet teems
With murmurs of delight, and golden gleams,
As waking myriads swarm below, above,
And the dead quicken, and the living love.
And now each morn what clouds of incense rise!
What hymns of rapture! grateful to the skies!
While all night long a sweet sad voice is heard,
The soothing vespers of the wakeful bird.
Man too reviving his glad tribute pays:
(Most cause has he for thankfulness and praise)
Each vernal scene to his prophetic eye
More dear, as harbinger of Summer nigh,
Soon to expand her warm maternal wing,
And nurse the tender infants of the Spring:
So shall the earth her countless broods sustain,
And of her millions none be born in vain.
Yet must I stay, though bidden to attend
The blissful rite that gives thee to my friend,
And at the altar hear thy trembling voice,
And see thy blushes, own thy maiden-choice.
Though absent present, I unite my prayer,
(Needless if love excluded every care)
That Fate, befriending virtue, may bestow
More than ye hope, and all ye wish below.
Source of my friend's best joys, who still shall find,
When thy cheek fades, fresh beauties in thy mind,
Sweet Soother of those ills that all must share,
And he must learn, tho' blest with thee, to bear,
Could Love alone life's few short hours employ,
Bidding Time borrow swifter wings from Joy,
Sages had taught, and Poets sung, in vain,
All art were folly, and all science pain —
But oh! ye days when beauty's soft controul
First woke the slumbering instincts of the soul,
Sudden and swift when Love's resistless flame
Flash'd through each kindling atom of our frame,
When the gay visions of its infant hours,
And all its first fine ecstasies were ours,
Too soon your value from your loss we learn!
Too soon ye fly! ah! never to return!
Some busy fiend of Folly's envious broods
In our defenceless paradise intrudes,
And lures from peace and joy to grief and shame,
Whispering vain hopes of pleasure, power, or fame.
Exiled these blissful bowers, before our eyes
A bleak wide world in cheerless prospect lies,
Where some must force, by unrelenting toil,
Their scanty comforts from a stubborn soil,
While others sigh, amid their stores to find
No cure for care, no medicine for the mind,
To still the pang that conscience can impart,
And calm the restless pulses of the heart,
Throbbing as burns ambition's feverish fire,
Faltering with grief, or fluttering with desire.
Still must we bear, though shunning public strife,
The small hostilities of private life,
Those nameless, countless evils that infest
All, all that breathe, the happiest and the best.
Even Love from every ill is not secure,
But has its hours of absence to endure.
These hours to cheat, and speed the sluggish day,
What spell so witching as the poet's Lay?
He from its cares the enraptur'd soul can steal,
While busied fancy quite forgets to feel;
Tranc'd in the day-dreams of the fabling Muse,
The dull realities of life we lose;
The senses sleep; truth yields to fiction's power;
A transient frenzy fills the ecstatic hour.
But this the humblest triumph of his art;
Which soothes to soften, melts to mould the heart;
Calls forth new powers, with loftier passions fires,
And generous thoughts, and glorious deeds inspires.
Not thus the world's contagious school, from thence
The head buys knowledge at the heart's expense:
An after-wisdom, ever learnt too late
To save from error, or its ills abate;
A purblind prudence, missing still its aim,
Almost a vice, though with a virtue's name;
Knowledge of evil, hurtful, humbling truth!
That, while it teaches, taints the thoughts of youth,
Its cheerful faith with dreary doubts annoys,
Daunts its brave hopes, and blights its opening joys.
Vice is not safely seen, though seen forewarn'd,
Better unknown, than known but to be scorn'd:
More wise in happy ignorance to remain,
Than in the tranquil bosom nurse Disdain,
And Hate, and Terror, passions all unblest,
Unmeet to fill the sanctuary of the breast,
Fear is low born, but Hope of high descent,
Allied at once to Virtue and Content.
Ah! if we see no smiles in Nature's face,
Her gifts lose half their value, all their grace:
Trembling we take them, and with thankless mind,
(Deaf to the harmony, the beauty blind,)
Too oft revile the bounteous, blissful plan,
And its great Author, in his image, Man,
Then be the Muse thy teacher, and thy guide,
Nor heed the bigot's fear, the sage's pride,
In S HAKESPEARE 's Scenes, the unsullied mind may see,
Safe from its harms, the world's epitome:
May learn to fill its duties, meet its cares,
Enjoy its blessings, and escape its snares.
In life's gay glare, as in the solar blaze,
Confused and lost each mingling colour plays;
Opprest, the baffled eyeball turns away,
Nor can discern the tints that form the day:
His page prismatic breaks the dazzling mass,
And bids the blended hues distinctly pass.
No dead remains of ancient art he knew,
But from the life man's naked nature drew:
The changeful features of the soul pourtray'd,
And caught each latent muscle as it play'd.
The bold but faithful sketch shall live, and last
Till the decaying world itself be past.
He the dim glass of learning could despise,
And look through nature with unaided eyes.
The sun of genius, with resistless ray,
On all her dark recesses pours the day.
He sees, exposed to his presumptuous glance,
The magic cavern, and the fairy-dance;
Dares the dread secrets of the grave to trace,
And view its awful wonders face to face;
The sullen spectres at his will employs,
The murderer's couch to haunt, to blast his festal joys.
But themes like these to loftier strains belong,
And the Bride trembles at the lengthening song.
For now, in fair perspective, rise to view,
All the heart sigh'd for, all the fancy drew
In those gay hours when love was life's employ,
And Hope was young, and credulous of joy.
Oh! may she find each flattering promise truth,
And Time fulfil the prophecies of Youth.
But, should Fate frown, may virtue's cheerful ray,
More bright than suns, illume life's cloudy day,
Dispel the shades that o'er its evening rise,
And light her footsteps to the expecting skies.