Begone, ye critics, and restrain your spite, Codrus writes on, and will for ever write. The heaviest Muse the swiftest course has gone, As clocks run fastest when most lead is on; What though no bees around your cradle flew, Nor on your lips distill'd the golden dew, Yet have we oft discover'd in their stead A swarm of drones that buzz'd about your head. When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling lyre, Attentive blocks stand round you and admire. Wit pass'd through thee no longer is the same, As meat digested takes a different name, But sense must sure thy safest plunder be, Since no reprisals can be made on thee. Thus thou may'st rise, and in thy daring flight (Though ne'er so weighty) reach a wondrous height. So, forced from engines, lead itself can fly, And ponderous slugs move nimbly through the sky. Sure Bavius copied Maevius to the full, And Chaerilus taught Codrus to be dull; Therefore, dear friend, at my advice give o'er This needless labour; and contend no more To prove a _dull succession_ to be true, Since 'tis enough we find it so in you. * * * * * ODE ON SOLITUDE.[56] 1 Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. 2 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. 3 Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day; 4 Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Together mix'd; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please, With meditation. 5 Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. * * * * * THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.[57] 1 Vital spark of heavenly flame! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life! 2 Hark! they whisper; angels say, 'Sister Spirit, come away!' What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be Death? 3 The world recedes; it disappears! Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring! Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting? * * * * * ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY[58]