Behold, ye fair, your lovely Queen! VIRTUE AND PLEASURE. BY THE SAME. INFORM me, VIRTUE! is it true! Does Pleasure really dwell with you? The sons of sense say, No. They say, that all who mind your rules They say, and openly maintain, That your rewards are care and pain; At best 'tis but a phantom fair, The soul is mortal, melts in air, And heav'n shall never reach. Or tell me, PLEASURE! what you feel; PLEASURE, Sweet power, to Nature dear! I never wish to be austere; I seek the happiest state. PLEASURE replies with modest smile, "Let not a name thy heart beguile; My name the sons of sense Have oft assum'd: but, trust me, they From happiness are far astray; 'Tis all a mere pretence. "To me they boast alliance near; Meanwhile they are of CIRCE's crew, "CIRCE, my rival, harlot base! Her blinded followers she betrays; "Mine is a purer, nobler rise, VIRTUE, my parent, from the skies With me, the child she bore to Love; A beauteous happy pair above, "VIRTUE, I grant, is often tried By sickness, sorrow, envy, pride; Nor is asham'd to mourn. But trial strengthens: conscience cheers, Of death and woe prevents the fears: Assaults to vict'ry turn. "Of active life the hard turmoils, Of friendship, sympathy, the pains, "But who can paint the heartfelt glow Faith's firm repose, hope's vision bright, "Nor deem such bliss an empty form; "An aching void where nought can come, But self-reproach, and secret gloom, Earnest of future woe! ་་ Let braggart sinners loudly boast: They dare not face rich Folly's frown; Held fast in Passion's chain They talk of liberty: 'tis prate. "Lest Death their trembling souls should seize, Their blood with mortal horrors freeze, And all their prospects end. At that inevitable hour, My parent, VIRTUE, proves her power, "In life, in death, I follow her; She, she alone, can joys confer, To fill the human heart: From heav'n together first we came: Constant we breathe one common flame, And never, never part!" SPRING. AN ODE. BY DR. JOHNSON. STERN Winter now, by Spring repress'd, And Nature, on her naked breast, Now o'er the rural kingdom roves And Vegetation plants the plain.. Unhappy! whom to beds of pain Whom smiling Nature courts in vain, Though Rapture sings and Beauty shines. Yet though my limbs disease invades, And bears me to the peaceful shades Here stop, my soul, thy rapid flight, |