Pastoral Stanzas
When Aurora's soft blushes o'erspread the blue hill,
— And the mist dies away at the glances of morn;
When the birds join the music that floats on the rill,
— And the beauties of spring the young woodlands adorn.
To breathe the pure air and enliven my soul,
— I bound from my cottage exulting and gay;
No care to molest me, no pow'r to controul,
— I sport with my lambkins, as thoughtless as they.
Yet, the bright tear of pity bedews my fond eyes,
— When I think that for Man the dear victims must fall,
While nature such stores of provision supplies,
— And the bounties of Heaven are common to all.
Ah! tell me, Reflection, why custom decreed
— That the sweet feather'd songsters so slaughter'd should be?
For the board of the rich the poor minstrels may bleed,
— But the fruits of the field are sufficient for me.
When I view the proud palace, so pompously gay,
— Whose high gilded turrets peep over the trees;
I pity its greatness and mournfully say,
— Can mortals delight in such trifles as these!
Can a pillow of down sooth the woe-stricken mind,
— Can the sweets of Arabia calm sickness and pain;
Can fetters of gold Love's true votaries bind,
— Or the gems of Peru Time's light pinions restrain?
Can those limbs which bow down beneath sorrow and age,
— From the floss of the silk-worm fresh vigour receive;
Can the pomp of the proud, death's grim tyrant assuage,
— Can it teach you to die, or instruct you to live?
Ah, no! then sweet Peace, lovely offspring of Heav'n,
— Come dwell in my cottage, thy handmaid I'll be;
Thus my youth shall pass on, unmolested and even,
— And the winter of age be enliven'd by thee!
When Aurora's soft blushes o'erspread the blue hill,
— And the mist dies away at the glances of morn;
When the birds join the music that floats on the rill,
— And the beauties of spring the young woodlands adorn.
To breathe the pure air and enliven my soul,
— I bound from my cottage exulting and gay;
No care to molest me, no pow'r to controul,
— I sport with my lambkins, as thoughtless as they.
Yet, the bright tear of pity bedews my fond eyes,
— When I think that for Man the dear victims must fall,
While nature such stores of provision supplies,
— And the bounties of Heaven are common to all.
Ah! tell me, Reflection, why custom decreed
— That the sweet feather'd songsters so slaughter'd should be?
For the board of the rich the poor minstrels may bleed,
— But the fruits of the field are sufficient for me.
When I view the proud palace, so pompously gay,
— Whose high gilded turrets peep over the trees;
I pity its greatness and mournfully say,
— Can mortals delight in such trifles as these!
Can a pillow of down sooth the woe-stricken mind,
— Can the sweets of Arabia calm sickness and pain;
Can fetters of gold Love's true votaries bind,
— Or the gems of Peru Time's light pinions restrain?
Can those limbs which bow down beneath sorrow and age,
— From the floss of the silk-worm fresh vigour receive;
Can the pomp of the proud, death's grim tyrant assuage,
— Can it teach you to die, or instruct you to live?
Ah, no! then sweet Peace, lovely offspring of Heav'n,
— Come dwell in my cottage, thy handmaid I'll be;
Thus my youth shall pass on, unmolested and even,
— And the winter of age be enliven'd by thee!
— And the mist dies away at the glances of morn;
When the birds join the music that floats on the rill,
— And the beauties of spring the young woodlands adorn.
To breathe the pure air and enliven my soul,
— I bound from my cottage exulting and gay;
No care to molest me, no pow'r to controul,
— I sport with my lambkins, as thoughtless as they.
Yet, the bright tear of pity bedews my fond eyes,
— When I think that for Man the dear victims must fall,
While nature such stores of provision supplies,
— And the bounties of Heaven are common to all.
Ah! tell me, Reflection, why custom decreed
— That the sweet feather'd songsters so slaughter'd should be?
For the board of the rich the poor minstrels may bleed,
— But the fruits of the field are sufficient for me.
When I view the proud palace, so pompously gay,
— Whose high gilded turrets peep over the trees;
I pity its greatness and mournfully say,
— Can mortals delight in such trifles as these!
Can a pillow of down sooth the woe-stricken mind,
— Can the sweets of Arabia calm sickness and pain;
Can fetters of gold Love's true votaries bind,
— Or the gems of Peru Time's light pinions restrain?
Can those limbs which bow down beneath sorrow and age,
— From the floss of the silk-worm fresh vigour receive;
Can the pomp of the proud, death's grim tyrant assuage,
— Can it teach you to die, or instruct you to live?
Ah, no! then sweet Peace, lovely offspring of Heav'n,
— Come dwell in my cottage, thy handmaid I'll be;
Thus my youth shall pass on, unmolested and even,
— And the winter of age be enliven'd by thee!
When Aurora's soft blushes o'erspread the blue hill,
— And the mist dies away at the glances of morn;
When the birds join the music that floats on the rill,
— And the beauties of spring the young woodlands adorn.
To breathe the pure air and enliven my soul,
— I bound from my cottage exulting and gay;
No care to molest me, no pow'r to controul,
— I sport with my lambkins, as thoughtless as they.
Yet, the bright tear of pity bedews my fond eyes,
— When I think that for Man the dear victims must fall,
While nature such stores of provision supplies,
— And the bounties of Heaven are common to all.
Ah! tell me, Reflection, why custom decreed
— That the sweet feather'd songsters so slaughter'd should be?
For the board of the rich the poor minstrels may bleed,
— But the fruits of the field are sufficient for me.
When I view the proud palace, so pompously gay,
— Whose high gilded turrets peep over the trees;
I pity its greatness and mournfully say,
— Can mortals delight in such trifles as these!
Can a pillow of down sooth the woe-stricken mind,
— Can the sweets of Arabia calm sickness and pain;
Can fetters of gold Love's true votaries bind,
— Or the gems of Peru Time's light pinions restrain?
Can those limbs which bow down beneath sorrow and age,
— From the floss of the silk-worm fresh vigour receive;
Can the pomp of the proud, death's grim tyrant assuage,
— Can it teach you to die, or instruct you to live?
Ah, no! then sweet Peace, lovely offspring of Heav'n,
— Come dwell in my cottage, thy handmaid I'll be;
Thus my youth shall pass on, unmolested and even,
— And the winter of age be enliven'd by thee!
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