ODE. Thomas Gray Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.002 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. II. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 270-272. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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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 .