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Too great for earth, he wilh'd to claim

The honours of a hcav'nly name;

And servile Flatt’ry bow'd the knee

To hail the pageant Deity;

But soon, by thee compellid, the youth

Unwilling own’d the force of truth.

So few the hours, alas ! that fate

Permits to human pomp and state,

For * Sleep confounds the little and the great.


Hail then! the wearicd's end and aim,

And all the world's sweet requiem;

Hail thou ! that kindly dost intrude

To human toils a peaceful interlude:


* Alexander, when saluted a god by his parasites, confessed himself mortal, mentioning several things which convinced him of his mor. tality, particularly sleep, which he said was the image of death.

Vide Plutarch: in Alexand.

Of timid man the gentle friend,

Thou bid'st us by degrees prepare

A more lasting sleep to bear,

And now anticipate our end.
When monarch Reason, lull'd to rest,

Lets fall the sceptre of the breast;

At thy command, unbounded queen,

Fancy usurps her mimic reign,

She ridicules in wanton play

The arduous trifles of the day,

Laughs at vain man’s delusive schemes,

And points him to his waking dreams.

Thus, while his aid our bodies find,

Sleep brings instruction for the mind.

Let man instruction's voice obey,

And well improve his fieeting day,

Then sleep, and wake to immortality.

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Or brood o'er Scythia's icy-fetter'd wave :

For, Winter, thee of yore

Night, haggard beldame, to the Northwind bore,

To rule his bleak domain,

When youthful Jove began his iron reign.

But come, thou nymph of dewy eye,
Which softly beams with vivid joy,
Whose locks in primrose wreaths are twin’d,

Or loosely woo the western wind;

Thou, who dost tread the spangled mead,

In dress of Nature's woof array'd,
Such as in show'ry cloud we view,
Thaumantia's robe of mingled hue :


Come, and thy landscapes all disclose,



the morn but faintly glows,

While yet she spreads her modest veil

Of shadowy mists o'er hill and dale.

And lo, where many an antic round

Quaintly marks the verdant ground !

For there the fairy elves have trod,

Dancing o'er the hallow'd fod;

Their nightly orgies there they keep,

And through the day in flow'rets sleep.

The little insect-fons of Spring

In duteous hum their requiem fing,

As o'er the bloomy field they stray,
Bearing the yellow spoil away:
From ev'ry grove and ev'ry tree

Burst the wild notes of harmony.



Thy presence, genial nymph, inspires

The music of the woodland choirs.

In Fancy's architecture skilld,

The little warblers featly build

In many a shade the moffy nest,
There from their airy flights to rest.
Oh! may no truant-lad espy,

And seize the prey with cruel joy.

But fearless of his thievish aims,

Her nest of clay the swallow frames,

In which, to cottage-rafter hung,

She fondly feeds her twitt'ring young.
Now the glad hind renews his toil,
And cheerly turns the yielding foil,

Who trusts to see the hidden grain

With golden harvests clothe the plain.


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