Mark Akenside

Rustic herald of the spring.

Than Timoleon's arms require, And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.

Heaven's all-subduing will, With good the progeny of ill, Attempreth every state below.

The Providence of heaven Has some peculiar blessing given To each allotted state below.

Such and so various are the tastes of men!

Adieu, for him, The dull engagements of the bustling world! Adieu the sick impertinence of praise! And hope, and action! for with her alone, By streams and shades, to steal these sighing hours, Is all he asks, and all that fate can give!

Others of graver mien; behold, adorn'd With holy ensigns, how sublime they move, And bending oft their sanctimonious eyes Take homage of the simple-minded throng; Ambassadors of heaven!

Oft the hours From morn to eve have stolen unmark'd away, While mute attention hung upon his lips.

Man loves knowledge, and the beams of truth More welcome touch his understanding's eye Than all the blandishments of sound his ear, Than all of taste his tongue.

Pall on her temper, like a twice-told tale.

Can art, alas! or genius guide the head Where truth and freedom from the heart are fled? Can lesser wheels repeat their native stroke, When the prime function of the soul is broke?

The man forget not, though in rags he lies, And know the mortal through a crown's disguise.

O'er yonder eastern hill the twilight pale Walks forth from darkness; and the God of day, With bright Astraea seated by his side, Waits yet to leave the ocean.

Seeks painted trifles and fantastic toys, And eagerly pursues imaginary joys.

Youth calls for Pleasure, Pleasure calls for Love.