ODE
.
By
the
Same
.
I.
LO
!
where
the
rosy-bosom'd
hours
,
Fair
VENUS'
train
appear
,
Disclose
the
long-expecting
flowers
,
And
wake
the
purple
year
!
The
ATTICK
warbler
pours
her
throat
Responsive
to
the
cuckow's
note
,
The
untaught
harmony
of
spring
:
While
whisp'ring
pleasure
as
they
fly
,
Cool
Zephyrs
thro'
the
clear
blue
sky
Their
gather'd
fragrance
fling
.
II
.
Where-e'er
the
oak's
thick
branches
stretch
A
broader
browner
shade
;
Where-e'er
the
rude
and
moss-green
beech
O'er-canopies
the
glade
;
Beside
some
water's
rushy
brink
With
me
the
Muse
shall
sit
and
think
(
At
ease
reclin'd
in
rustick
state
)
How
vain
the
ardour
of
the
crowd
,
How
low
,
how
indigent
the
proud
,
How
little
are
the
great
!
III
.
Still
is
the
toiling
hand
of
care
:
The
panting
herds
repose
:
Yet
hark
,
how
through
the
peopled
air
The
busy
murmur
glows
!
The
insect
youth
are
on
the
wing
,
Eager
to
taste
the
honied
spring
,
And
float
amid
the
liquid
noon
:
Some
lightly
o'er
the
current
skim
,
Some
shew
their
gayly-gilded
trim
Quick-glancing
to
the
sun
.
IV
.
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
dress'd
:
Brush'd
by
the
hand
of
rough
mischance
,
Or
chill'd
by
age
,
their
airy
dance
They
leave
,
in
dust
to
rest
.
V.
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
frolick
,
while
'tis
May
.