Long his loss shall Erin weep, Ne'er again his likeness see; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strains of immortality! Horror covers all the heath, Clouds of carnage blot the sun. Sisters,--weave the web of death; Sisters, cease, the work is done. Hail the task, and hail the hands! Songs of joy and triumph sing! Joy to the victorious bands; Triumph to the younger king. Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Learn the tenor of our song. Scotland, through each winding Tale Far and wide the notes prolong. Sisters, hence with spurs of speed: Each her thundering falchion wield; Each bestride her sable steed. Hurry, hurry to the field. ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE Now the golden Morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing; With vermeil cheek and whisper soft She wooes the tardy Spring; Till April starts, and calls around The sleeping fragrance from the ground, And lightly o'er the living scene Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. New-born flocks, In rustic dance, Frisking ply their feeble feet; Forgetful of their wintry trance, The birds his presence greet; But chief the sky-lark warbles high His trembling, thrilling ecstasy, And, lessening from the dazzled sight, Melts into air and liquid light. Rise, my soul! on wings of fire Rise the rapturous choir among! Hark! 'tis Nature strikes the lyre, And leads the general song. [_Four lines lacking in the MS_.] Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Mute was the music of the air, The herd stood drooping by: Their raptures now that wildly flow No yesterday nor morrow know; 'Tis man alone that joy descries With forward and reverted eyes. Smiles on past Misfortune's brow Soft Reflection's hand can trace, And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw A melancholy grace; While Hope prolongs our happier hour, Or deepest shades, that dimly lower And blacken round our weary way, Gilds with a gleam of distant day. Still where rosy Pleasure leads See a kindred Grief pursue; Behind the steps that Misery treads, Approaching Comfort view: The hues of bliss more brightly glow Chastised by sabler tints of woe, And, blended, form with artful strife The strength and harmony of life. See the wretch that long has tossed On the thorny bed of pain At length repair his vigour lost And breathe and walk again: The meanest flowret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale. The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening Paradise. Humble Quiet builds her cell Near the source whence Pleasure flows; She eyes the clear crystalline well, And tastes it as it goes. [_The rest is lacking_.] SAMUEL JOHNSON From THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES IN IMITATION OF THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL