Ode to Solitude

Hence vain pride, fantastic folly, And hail sweet pleasing melancholy, Attend the thoughtful swain; Await his steps within the grove, Or sooth his heart or aid his love, And raise his youthful strain.

If love demands his willing lyre, Inspire him with poetic fire And kindle tender rage; But if unknown the lyre to touch, The Poet's rapture is too much, O warm the prosiac page,

At ev'ning sober and serene, When silence lulls the varied scene, (Except the tuneful trush) Then let me to the fields repair, Inhail the pleasing ev'ning air, And fragrance from each bush.

There let me meditate profound On wide creation's ample round, With wonder and delight:— And see where Venus rides afar, With twinkling gems around her car, The sparkling queen of night.

Or lead me by the hedge-row green, Where clust ring roses thick are seen To half immerse the hive; There let me sit and hear them sing, Their ev'ning ditties, song of spring, And carrols all alive:

And here them wisely plan to lay A stock up for some future day, When winter chills the year; Or if too numerous to leave Their parents, and with wisdom brave, Begin a house to rear.

Now flutt'ring past with heedless flight, Soft gaudy children of the night, The catterpillars fly, Around each shrub they throng and play, Where late they 'scaped the solar ray That made the lillies die.

Now see the ruins of the day Repairing quick—the drooping sprav Now lifts its sun-burnt head; The roses drink the healing dew, The draught their wonted life renew, And balmy fragrance spread.