Ode on Ranelagh

Ye dazzling lamps, ye jocund fires, That from yon fabric shine, Where grateful pleasure yet admires Her Lacy's great design: And ye, who from the fields which lie Round Chelsea, with amazement's eye, The gardens, and the dome survey, Whose walks, whose trees, whose lights among, Wander the courtly train along Their thought-dispelling way.

Ah, splendid room! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, walks belov'd in vain! Where oft in happier times I stray'd, A stranger then to pain: I feel the gales, which from you blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, They seem to sooth my famish'd soul, And redolent of tea, and roll, To breathe a second spring.

Rotonda, say, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race, In thy bright round with step serene, The paths of pleasure trace; Who chiefly now delight to lave Green hyson in the boiling wave, The sable coffee which distill? What lounging progeny are found, Who stroll incessant round and round, Like horses in a mill?

While some on earnest business dream, And gravely stupid try To search each complicated scheme Of public policy: Some ladies leave the spacious dome, Around the garden's maze to roam, And unknown regions dare descry; Still as they walk they look behind, Lest fame a secret foe should find From some malicious eye.

Loud mirth is theirs, and pleasing praise To beauty's shrine address'd; The sprightly songs, the melting lays, Which charm the soften'd breast; Theirs lively wit, invention free, The sharp bon mot, keen repartee, And every art coquets employ, The thoughtless day, the jocund night, The spirits brisk, the sorrows light, That fly th' approach of joy.

Alas! regardless of their doom, The lovely victims rove; No sense of sufferings yet to come Can now their prudence move: But see! where all around them wait The ministers of female fate, An artful, perjur'd, cruel train; Ah! show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the faithless band Of false deceitful men!

These shall the lust of gaming wear, That harpy of the mind, With all the troop of rage and fear, That follows close behind: Or pining love shall waste their youth, Or jealousy with rankling tooth That gnaws bright Hymen's golden chain, Who opens wide the fatal gate, For sad distrust, and ruthless hate, And Sorrow's pallid train.

Ambition this shall tempt to fix Her hopes on something high, To barter for a coach and fix Her peace and liberty. The stings of Scandal these shall try, And Affectation's haughty eye, That scowls on those it us'd to greet; The cutting sneer, th' abusive song, And false report that glides along With never-resting feet.

And lo! where in the vale of years A grizly tribe are seen; Fancy's pale family of fears, More hideous than their queen: Struck with th' imaginary crew, Which artless Nature never knew, These aid from quacks, and cordials beg, While this transform'd by folly's hand, Remains a-while at her command, A tea-pot, or an egg.

To each her sufferings: all must grieve, And pour a silent groan, At homage others charms receive, Or slights that meet their own:— But ill the voice of truth severe Will suit the gay regardless ear, Whose joy in mirth and revels lies! Thought would destroy this paradise. No more!—Where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.