CXIX. THOMAS PARnell, 1679-1718. M SONG. Y days have been so wond'rous free, With careless ease from tree to tree, Were but as blest as I. Ask gliding waters, if a tear Of mine increased their stream? Or ask the flying gales, if e'er But now my former days retire, Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines! With all of nature, all of art, O teach a young, unpractised heart, The very thought of change I hate, As much as of despair; Nor ever covet to be great, Unless it be for her. 'Tis true, the passion in my mind Is mixed with soft distress; Yet while the fair I love is kind, I cannot wish it less. CXX. POLYPHEME'S SONG. JOHN GAY, 1688-1732. RUDDIER than the cherry! O sweeter than the berry! O nymph more bright Than moonshine night, Like kidlings, blithe and merry! Ripe as the melting cluster, No lily has such lustre ; Yet hard to tame As raging flame, CXXI. ALEXANDER POPE, 1688-1744. ODE ON SOLITUDE. IAPPY the man whose wish and care HA A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground: Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Blest, who can unconcernedly find Hours, days and years slide soft away; In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day: Sound sleep by night, study and ease, Together mixed; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please, With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus, unlamented, let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. CXXII. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. VITAL spark of heavenly flame ! Quit, oh! quit this mortal frame: Hark! they whisper; angels say, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, The world recedes; it disappears! Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly ! O Death! where is thy Sting? |