Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Fair Venus’ train, appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring; While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade,
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'ercanopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think
( At ease reclin'd in rustic state ) How vain the ardour of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care; The panting herds repose: Yet hark, how thro’ 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 show their gayly-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun. 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 drest: Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest.
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 frolic while‘ tis May.
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