15 And while I suffer this to give him quiet, On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me; Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher. 5 ΙΟ SONG From The Indian Emperor AH fading joy! how quickly art thou past! As if the cares of human life were few, We seek out new: And follow fate, that does too fast pursue. See, how on every bough the birds express, But on their mother nature lay their care: As none of all his subjects undergo? Hark, hark, the waters fall, fall, fall, And with a murmuring sound Dash, dash, upon the ground, 15 SONG OF THAMESIS In Albion and Albanius OLD father Ocean calls my tide; The barks upon the billows ride, The master will not stay; The merry boatswain from his side His whistle takes, to check and chide And all the crew aloud has cried, See, the god of seas attends thee, 5 ΤΟ 15 ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA ΙΟ 15 20 THE CHANGE POOR River, now thou'rt almost dry, What Flocks, or Herds, will near thee stay? 5 The Swans, that sought thee in thy Pride, Now on new Streams forgetful ride: And Fish, that in thy Bosom lay, To waste thy sad Remains in Tears; Nor will thy mournful Murmurs heed. Fly, wretched Stream, with all thy speed, Amongst those solid Rocks thy Griefs bestow; For Friends, like those alas! thou ne'er did'st know. And thou, poor Sun! that sat'st on high; But late, the Splendour of the Sky; What Flow'r tho' by thy Influence born, Now Clouds prevail, will tow'rds thee turn? What Persian Votary will bow? What River will her Smiles reflect, Now that no Beams thou can'st direct? By wat❜ry Vapours overcast, Who thinks upon thy Glories past? If present Light, nor Heat we get, Fall, wretched Sun, to the more faithful Deep. Nor do thou, lofty Structure! boast, 25 30 35 Thou, and thy painted Roofs, in Ruin mixt, Fall to the Earth, for That alone is fixt. The same, poor Man, the same must be 45 50 55 No Love, sown in thy prosp'rous Days, Can Fruit in this cold Season raise: Can in this time of Storms be heard. 5 ΤΟ 15 TO MR. POPE THE muse, of ev'ry heav'nly gift allowed And in each verse he draws a bill on fame. For none have writ (whatever they pretend) Nor by injurious scruples think it fit To hide their judgments who applaud your wit. |