Ode X. L'ozioso

Begone, away, Ye serpent brood of gloomy Care, No longer bar the path to Pleasure's bower. Begone, away, To Avarice's castle bare, Or the more gaudy domes of Pride and Power.

As on this bank diffused I lie, While Summer deals her stores around, My tiny harp depending nigh Chaunts to the gale's amusive sound Unbidden airs that bathe my breast O Indolence! in thy sweet dream. With joy I urge the pleasing theme In thy enchanting influence blest: With love thy dearest gifts reveal. They best can paint who best can feel.

Parent of every virtue hail! Nor smile that I this title owe, For from thy silent fountain flow All streams that deck this desert vale. The hero's toil, the patriot's care And all the race of Labour fair, Where tend they, save beneath thy sway The evening of a boisterous day To render to their weary lord? Blest to thy peaceful port to sail, And make his former woes a tale, To pleasure and to thee restored.

And happy did thy wide command Yet wider territories own; That every wretch whose restless hand Spreads ruin thro' a blooming land To gain a halter or a crown, From Industry's emotions free, Had been with Sleep or been with thee!

Still where the blessed Muse is seen Thy careless step will not be far, For with thee she delights to play: With thee she leaves the tainted reign Of proud Ambition's evil star, And Wealth's tumultuary fray. She leaves their sad society, Where all the flowers Variety In Pleasure's garden can disclose Are blasted by Satiety: And Languor and Anxiety, Tho' banded guards in vain oppose, Their melancholy progress steal To where the potent calls on Rest, And in his downy couch conceal Their thorns that rend the feeble breast.

With thee my visionary hours Now trace the consecrated grove Of Science; now at random rove Along the Muse's blissful vale. With care they crop the Attic flowers, And in a vase of British frame Present them to the shrine of Fame. Even her, the Muse, I second call To thee, Oh empress! tho' inclined By her dear aid the mines to find Of mighty Nature's unsun'd gold, And stamp with Art's creating mold; Yet to thy will obedient I From the delightful labour fly, The Muse's joy, the Muse's care, But serve thy slumbers to endear.

When bounteous Summer's golden key Unlocks the treasures of the year, Then, queen of pleasures, led by thee, Me let my musing footsteps bear Thro' all the scenes of nature free, The wild, the grand, the soft, the fair. Now to the verdant champain where Some ancient mount his royalty Exalts above the subject lee, While clad in solar splendor clear The variegated scenes appear. To port along the azure sea, Their swelling pride gay galleys steer, Where glittering towers their glory rear, To guard whose hoary majesty The mazes of a river err. Low in the sullen heath afar A silver lake's bright purity Reflects the sapphire canopy; And distant music charms the ear, Sent from the woodland minstrelsy.

Then to the villa's rural mound, Where Nature reigns by Splendor crowned: The florid garden's balmy scene, Amid whose shady alleys green The tread of Science oft is seen, When Eve, that lovely nun serene, Forsakes her western cell to shower Fresh dews o'er every sleeping flower; And to her star's resplendent ray The thrush devotes her farewel lay.

But when arrayed in splendor wan, Wild Winter holds his savage sway, Add fuel to the fading fire, Nor heed the storm's destructive ire, While Indolence governs the day, And laughs at Sorrow's evil train. Bring every sage of useful lore, Bring every bard of magic power With living numbers to control Each movement of the raptured soul. Bring mighty Ossian, Homer old, The treasures of the Latian pair, The awful strain of Milton bold, And Tasso's wanton carol fair, Whose crown shall equal Spenser share. Bring father Shakespeare's native lay, And sly Fontaine, and Moliere gay, Nor leave the lord of lyric fame, Grave Pindar, nor the Teian son, Nor what the page of Sappho lone Yet breathes of love's delusive flame.

Be here the bards of latest days, Like planets who by borrow'd rays Shine thro' the Muse's present night With feeble, yet with lovely light. The classic page of moral Gray, The portrait of the varied year, And, Indolence, thy castle dear, The vein of Akenside display, And his who decked the parrot's bier. The tender scene of Hume be nigh, To wake the sympathetic sigh; Of Maffei, and the Roman sire, Heir of the Attic art and sire. The chosen band let Fielding join, That minstrel sweet of skill divine, Each generous feeling to impart, And ope the fountains of the heart. And here the rival of his throne Be Smollet, Humour's genuine son.

But why the countless stores relate That Science to her votary lends? Even the vain pageants of her state With joy keen Ridicule attends. Philosophers in Folly's tire, Who study much to be unwise, And bards who from their opiate lyre Deal slumbers to the hearers eyes. O times! when oft the torpid strain The ghastly shades of Nonsense stain, While thro' the gloom false beauties tread, Like glow-worms thro' the midnight mead. The genuine births of art how rare! And in their stead what shapes appear! Gay Tragedies in Grecian pall, Scenes that sleep, and songs that brawl: Sad Comedies, that teach to weep, With wit so thin and plot so deep: While Elegy, with pulpit nod, Starts up a sable man of God, And Ode, his sullen clerk below, Hums the rueful ditty slow; With tinsel prankt his tattered suit, And flowrets innocent of fruit.

What joys are thine, queen of my song! The voice of Music, Painting's hand— All arts confess thy soft command; Their treasures all to thee belong. O ever let me live with thee, From care and toil and sorrow free; And when the Muse partakes the day, Brief be the magic of her sway. Ah far remove the hated praise Of many folio-volumed lays: Be mine to build the slender RIME, That haply down the stream of time With tuneful oar and spangled sail May move to Fame's indulgent gale. Yet, yet, dread Power, O, ere confest Thy influence now invades my breast, Yet hear me. Ah in vain * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *