« НазадПродовжити »
But chief, the skylark warbles high
Rise, my soul ! on wings of fire,
Rise the rapt'rous choir among ; Hark! 'tis nature strikes the lyre,
And leads the gen’ral song: • Warm let the lyric transport flow, Warm as the ray that bids it glow ; And animates the vernal grove With health, with harmony, and love.'
Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
The herd stood drooping by :
Smiles on past misfortune's brow
Soft reflection's hand can trace ; And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While hope prolongs our happier hour,
Still, where rosy pleasure leads,
See a kindred grief pursue ;
Approaching comfort view :
See the wretch, that long has tossed
On the thorny bed of pain,
And breathe and walk again :
Humble quiet builds her cell,
Near the source whence pleasure flows; She eyes the clear crystalline well,
And tastes it as it goes.
• While 'far below the 'madding’ crowd * Rush headlong to the dangerous flood,' Where broad and turbulent it sweeps, * And’ perish in the boundless deeps. Mark where indolence and pride,
• Sooth'd by flattery's tinkling sound,' Go, softly rolling, side by side,
Their dull but daily round :
Mark ambition's march sublime
Up to power's meridian height;
And sickens at the sight.
* Happier he, the peasant, far,
From the pangs of passion free, That breathes the keen yet wholesome air
Of rugged penury.