Ode to Indolence, 1750

Ah! why for ever on the wing Persists my weary'd soul to roam? Why, ever cheated, strives to bring Or pleasure or contentment home?

Thus the poor bird that draws his name From Paradise's honour'd groves, Careless fatigues his little frame, Nor finds the resting place he loves.

Lo! on the rural mossy bed My limbs with careless ease reclin'd; Ah, gentle Sloth! indulgent spread The same soft bandage o'er my mind.

For why should ling'ring thought invade, Yet ev'ry worldly prospect cloy? Lend me, soft Sloth! thy friendly aid, And give me peace, debarr'd of joy.

Lov'st thou yon' calm and silent flood, That never ebbs, that never flows, Protected by the circling wood From each tempestuous wind that blows?

An altar on its bank shall rise, Where oft' thy vot'ry shall be sound, What time pale Autumn lulls the skies, And sick'ning verdure fades around.

Ye busy Race! ye factious Train! That haunt Ambition's guilty shrine, No more perplex the world in vain, But offer here your vows with mine.

And thou, puissant Queen! be kind: If e'er I shar'd thy balmy pow'r, If e'er I sway'd my active mind To weave for thee the rural bow'r;

Dissolve in sleep each anxious care, Each unavailing sigh remove, And only let me wake to share The sweets of friendship and of love.