Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclin'd in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the Crowd, How low, how little are the Proud, How indigent the Great! Still is the toiling hand of Care: The panting herds repose: Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, And float amid the liquid noon: To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began. Alike the Busy and the Gay But flutter thro' life's little day, In fortune's varying colours drest: Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone--We frolic, while 'tis May. Her conscious tail her joy declar'd; Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, i Still had she gaz'd; but 'midst the tide Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Thro' richest purple to the view The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize. Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent (Malignant fate sat by, and smil❜d) The slipp❜ry verge her feet beguil'd, Eight times emerging from the flood Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd: Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard, A Fav'rite has no friend! |