But a short space the Moon illumes the skies; Yet she repairs her wanings, and again Silvers the vault of Night;--but no supplies, To feed their wasting fires, the lamps of Life obtain. When our pale Form shall pensive vigils keep Where COLLINS, AKENSIDE, and SHENSTONE roam, Or quiet with the Despot, JOHNSON, sleep, In that murk cell, the Body's final home, To senseless dust, and to a fleeting shade Changes the life-warm Being!--Ah! who knows If the next dawn our eye-lids may pervade? Darken'd and seal'd, perchance, in long, and last repose! When vivid Thought's unceasing force assails, It shakes, from Life's frail glass, the ebbing sands; Their course run out, ah! what to us avails Our fame's high note, tho' swelling it expands! Reflect, that each convivial joy we share Amid encircling Friends, with grace benign, Escapes the grasp of our rapacious Heir;-- Pile then the steaming board, and quaff the rosy wine! Illustrious HAYLEY!--in that cruel hour, When o'er thee Fate the sable flag shall wave, Not thy keen wit, thy fancy's splendid power, Knowledge, or worth, shall snatch thee from the grave. Not to his MASON's grief, from Death's dim plains Was honor'd GRAY's departed form resign'd; No tears dissolve the cold Lethean chains, That, far from busy Life, the mortal semblance bind. Then, for the bright creations of the brain, O! do not thou from health's gay leisure turn, Lest we, like tuneful MASON, sigh in vain, And grasp a timeless, tho' a LAUREL'D URN! 1: Aglaia, the eldest of the Graces. TO LIGURIA. BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE TENTH. O thou! exulting in the charms, Nature, with lavish bounty, showers, When youth no more thy spirit warms, And stealing age thy pride alarms, For fleeting graces, and for waning powers; When all the shining locks, that now Adown those ivory shoulders bound, With deaden'd colour shade thy brow, And fall as from th' autumnal bough Leaves, that rude winds have scatter'd on the ground; And on that cheek the tints, that shame May's orient light and Summer's rose, Dim as yon taper's sullen flame, Shall, in a dusky red, proclaim That not one hue in wonted lustre glows; When wrinkles o'er LIGURIA's face Their daily strengthening furrows lead; When faithful mirrors cease to place In her charm'd sight each blooming grace, And will no more her heart's proud triumph feed; Then the chang'd Maid, with secret shame, Shall thus the past, and present chide; O! why, amid the loud acclaim, That gave my rising charms to Fame, Swell'd this coy bosom with disdainful pride? Or why, since now the wish to yield Steals pensive thro' each melting vein, The ice dissolv'd, that scorn congeal'd, And every tender thought reveal'd, Why, vanish'd BEAUTY, com'st not _thou_ again? TO PHYLLIS. INVITING HER TO CELEBRATE THE BIRTHDAY OF MÆCENAS. BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE ELEVENTH.