POSTHUMOUS POEMS AND FRAGMENTS. ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE. [Left unfinished by Gray. The additions by Mason are distinguished by inverted commas.] Now the golden morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, With vermeil cheek and whisper soft She wooes the tardy spring: The sleeping fragrance from the ground; Scatters his freshest tenderest green. New-born flocks, in rustic dance, Frisking ply their feeble feet; And, lessening from the dazzled sight, Melts into air and liquid light. Rise, my soul! on wings of fire, Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; 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, Or deepest shades, that dimly lower And blacken round our weary way, Still where rosy pleasure leads, The hues of bliss more brightly glow, See the wretch that long has tost And breathe and walk again: The meanest floweret of the vale, The common sun, the air, the skies, 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, Mark where indolence and pride, To these, if Hebe's self should bring Mark ambition's march sublime Happier he, the peasant, far, From the pangs of passion free, That breathes the keen yet wholesome air Of rugged penury. He, when his morning task is done, Can slumber in the noontide sun; And hie him home, at evening's close, He, unconscious whence the bliss, From toils he wins the spirits light, AGRIP. 'Tis well, begone! your errand is perform'd, [Speaks as to Anicetus entering The message needs no comment. Tell your master, |