A TURKISH ODE OF MESIHI. [IBID.] HEAR! how the nightingales, on every spray, : Be gay too soon the flowers of Spring will fade. What gales of fragrance scent the vernal air! Hills, dales, and woods, their loveliest mantles wear. Who knows what cares await that fatal day, When ruder gusts shall banish gentle May? Ev'n death, perhaps, our vallies will invade. Be gay: too soon the flowers of Spring will fade. The tulip now its varied hue displays, The joys of youth, while May invites, pursue! The sparkling dewdrops o'er the lilies play, : The fresh-blown rose like Zeineb's cheek appears, When pearls, like dew-drops, glitter in her ears. The charms of youth at once are seen and past; And nature says, 'They art too sweet to last.' So blooms the rose; and so the blushing maid. Be gay too soon the flowers of Spring will fade. See! yon anemonies their leaves unfold, Now, while the wines are brought, the sofa's laid, The plants no more are dried, the meadows dead, No more the rose-bud hangs her pensive head: The shrubs revive in vallies, meads, and bowers, And every stalk is diadem'd with flowers; In silken robes each hillock stands array'd. Be gay: too soon the flowers of Spring will fade. Clear drops, each morn, impearl the rose's bloom, And from its leaf the Zephyr drinks perfume; The dewy buds expand their lucid store : Be this our wealth: ye damsels, ask no more. Though wise men envy, and though fools upbraid, Be gay too soon the flowers of Spring will fade. The dew-drops sprinkled, by the musky gale, Late, gloomy winter chill'd the sullen air, Soft, in his reign, the notes of love resound, May this rude lay from age to age remain, A MONODY, TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. LYTTELTON. 1747. [LORD LYTTELTON.*] I. Ar length escap'd from every human eye, From every duty, every care, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love * His Lordship, it may be observed, had not attained the dignity of a peerage till some years after this monody was written. II. Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills, Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green, But never shall you now behold her more: And taste refin'd, your rural charms explore. Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night, Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine Reason's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine. III. Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice For her despising, when she deign'd to sing, The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more; And every shepherd's flute Was cast in silent scorn away, While all attended to her sweeter lay. Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song; And thou, melodious Philomel, Again thy plaintive story tell, For death has stop'd that tuneful tongue, Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel. |