To
the
Honourable
and
Reverend
F.
C.
IN
frolick's
hour
,
ere
serious
thought
had
birth
,
There
was
a
time
,
my
dear
C—s
,
when
The
Muse
would
take
me
on
her
airy
wing
And
waft
to
views
romantic
;
there
present
Some
motley
vision
,
shade
and
sun
:
the
cliff
O'erhanging
,
sparkling
brooks
,
and
ruins
grey
;
Bad
me
meanders
trace
,
and
catch
the
form
Of
varying
clouds
,
and
rainbows
learn
to
paint
.
Sometimes
ambition
,
brushing
by
,
wou'd
twitch
My
mantle
,
and
with
winning
look
sublime
Allure
to
follow
.
What
tho'
steep
the
track
,
Her
mountain's
top
wou'd
overpay
when
climb'd
The
scaler's
toil
;
her
temple
there
was
fine
,
And
lovely
thence
the
prospects
.
She
cou'd
tell
Where
laurels
grew
,
whence
many
a
wreath
antique
;
But
more
advis'd
to
shun
the
barren
twig
,
(
What
is
immortal
verdure
without
fruit
?
)
And
woo
some
thriving
art
:
her
num'rous
mines
Were
open
to
the
searcher's
skill
and
pains
.
Caught
by
th'
harangue
,
heart
beat
,
and
flutt'ring
pulse
Sounded
irregular
marches
to
be
gone
—
What
,
pause
a
moment
when
Ambition
calls
?
No
,
the
blood
gallops
to
the
distant
goal
,
And
throbs
to
reach
it
.
Let
the
lame
sit
still
.
When
Fortune
gentle
,
at
the
hill's
verge
extreme
,
Array'd
in
decent
garb
,
but
somewhat
thin
,
Smiling
approach'd
,
and
what
occasion
ask'd
,
Of
climbing
?
She
already
provident
Had
cater'd
well
,
if
stomach
cou'd
digest
Her
viands
,
and
a
palate
not
too
nice
.
Unfit
she
said
,
for
perilous
attempt
,
That
manly
limb
requir'd
,
and
sinews
tough
.
She
took
,
and
lay'd
me
in
a
vale
remote
,
Amid
the
gloomy
scene
of
fir
and
yew
,
On
poppy
beds
,
where
Morpheus
strew'd
the
ground
:
Obscurity
her
curtain
round
me
drew
,
And
syren
Sloth
a
dull
quietus
sung
.
Sithence
no
fairy
lights
,
no
quick'ning
ray
,
Nor
stir
of
pulse
,
nor
objects
to
entice
Abroad
the
spirits
;
but
the
cloyster'd
heart
Sits
squat
at
home
,
like
pagod
in
a
nitch
Obscure
,
or
grandees
with
nod-watching
eye
,
And
folded
arms
,
in
presence
of
the
throne
,
Turk
,
or
Indostan
.
—
Cities
,
forums
,
courts
And
prating
sanhedrims
,
and
drumming
wars
,
Affect
no
more
than
stories
told
to
bed
Lethargic
,
which
at
intervals
the
sick
Hears
and
forgets
,
and
wakes
to
doze
again
.
Instead
of
converse
and
variety
,
The
same
trite
round
,
the
same
stale
silent
scene
:
Such
are
thy
comforts
,
blessed
Solitude
!
But
Innocence
is
there
,
but
Peace
all
kind
,
And
simple
Quiet
with
her
downy
couch
,
Meads
lowing
,
tune
of
birds
,
and
lapse
of
streams
,
And
Saunter
,
with
a
book
,
and
warbling
Muse
,
In
praise
of
hawthorns
.
—
Life's
whole
business
this
!
Is
it
to
bask
i'
th'
sun
,
if
so
,
a
snail
Were
happy
crawling
on
a
southern
wall
.
Why
sits
Content
upon
a
cottage-sill
At
eventide
,
and
blesseth
the
coarse
meal
In
sooty
corner
?
why
sweet
slumbers
wait
Th'
hard
pallet
?
not
because
from
haunt
remote
Sequester'd
in
a
dingle's
bushy
lap
:
'Tis
labour
makes
the
peasant's
sav'ry
fare
,
And
works
out
his
repose
:
for
ease
must
ask
The
leave
of
diligence
to
be
enjoy'd
.
Oh
!
listen
not
to
that
enchantress
Ease
With
seeming
smile
,
her
palatable
cup
By
standing
grows
insipid
;
and
beware
The
bottom
,
for
there's
poison
in
the
lees
.
What
health
impair'd
,
and
crowds
inactive
maim'd
?
What
daily
martyrs
to
her
sluggish
cause
!
Less
strict
devoir
the
Russ
and
Persian
claim
Despotic
;
and
as
subjects
long
inur'd
To
servile
burden
,
grow
supine
and
tame
,
So
fares
it
with
our
sov'reign
and
her
train
.
What
tho'
with
lure
fallacious
she
pretend
From
worldly
bondage
to
set
free
,
what
gain
Her
votaries
?
What
avails
from
iron
chains
Exempt
,
if
rosy
fetters
bind
as
fast
.
Bestir
,
and
answer
your
creation's
end
.
Think
we
that
man
with
vig'rous
pow'r
endow'd
,
And
room
to
stretch
,
was
destin'd
to
sit
still
?
Sluggards
are
nature's
rebels
,
slight
her
laws
,
Nor
live
up
to
the
terms
on
which
they
hold
Their
vital
lease
.
Laborious
terms
and
hard
,
But
such
the
tenure
of
our
earthly
state
!
Riches
and
fame
are
Industry's
reward
;
The
nimble
runner
courses
Fortune
down
,
And
then
he
banquets
,
for
she
feeds
the
bold
.
Think
what
you
owe
your
country
,
what
yourself
.
If
splendor
charm
not
,
yet
avoid
the
scorn
That
treads
on
lowly
stations
.
Think
of
some
Assiduous
booby
mounting
o'er
your
head
,
And
thence
with
saucy
grandeur
looking
down
:
Think
of
(
Reflection's
stab
!
)
the
pitying
friend
With
shoulder
shrug'd
,
and
sorry
.
Think
that
Time
Has
golden
minutes
,
if
discreetly
seiz'd
:
And
if
some
sad
example
,
indolent
,
To
warn
and
scare
be
wanting
—
think
of
me
.