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« Art thou not man, and dar'st thou find
A bliss which leans not to mankind ?

Presumptuous thought and vain!
Each bliss unshar'd is unenjoy'd,
Each
power

is weak unless employ'd
Some social good to gain.

~ Shall light and shade, and warmth and air, With those exalted joys compare,

Which active Virtue feels !
When on she drags, as lawful prize,
Contempt, and Indolence, and Vice,

At her triumphant wheels?

66 As rest and labour still succeeds
To man, whilst Virtue's glorious deeds

Employ his toilsome day;
This fair variety of things,
Are merely life's refreshing springs,

To sooth him on his way.

« Enthusiast, go, unstring thy lyre, In vain thou sing'st, if none admire,

How sweet soe'er the strain. And is not thy o'erflowing mind, Unless thou mixest with thy kind,

Benevolent in vain ?

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Enthusiast, go, try every sense,
If not thy bliss, thy excellence,

Thou yet hast learn’d to scan;
At least thy wants, thy weakness know,
And see them all uniting show,

That man was made for man."

ODE V.

THE MAN OF SORROW.

BY MR. GREVILLE.

Ah! what avails the lengthening mead, By Nature's kindest bounty spread

Along the vale of flowers! Ah! what avails the darkening grove, Or Philomel's melodious love,

That glads the midnight hours !

For me (alas !) the god of day
Ne’er glitters on the hawthorn spray,

Nor night her comfort brings :
I have no pleasure in the rose :
For me no vernal beauty blows,

Nor Philomela sings.

See how the sturdy peasants stride,
Adown yon hillock's verdant side,

In cheerful ignorance blest !
Alike to them the rose or thorn,
Alike arises every morn,

By gay Contentment drest,

Content, fair daughter of the skies,
Or gives spontaneous, or denies,

Her choice divinely free:
She visits oft the hamlet cot,
When Want and Sorrow are the lot

Of Avarice and me.

But see—or is it Fancy's dream ?
Methought a bright celestial gleam

Shot sudden thro' the groves ;
Behold, behold, in loose array,
Euphrosyne, more bright than day,

More mild than Paphian doves !

Welcome, O! welcome, Pleasure's queen!
And see, along the velvet green,

The jocund train advance :
With scatter'd flowers they fill the air,
The wood-nymph's dew-bespangled hair

Plays in the sportive dance.

Ah! baneful grant of angry Heaven
When to the feeling wretch is given

A soul alive to joy!
Joys fly with every hour away,
And leave th’unguarded heart a prey

To cares, that Peace destroy.

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And see, with visionary haste,
(Too soon the gay delusion past)

Reality remains !
Despair has seiz'd my captive soul,
And Horror drives without controul,

And slackens still the reins.

Ten thousand beauties round me throng:
What beauties, say, ye nymphs, belong

To the distemper'd soul?
I see the lawn of hideous dye,
The tow’ring elm nods misery,

With groans the waters roll.

Ye gilded roofs, Palladian domes,
Ye vivid tints of Persia's looms,

Ye were for misery made-
'Twas thus the Man of Sorrow spoke,
His wayward step then pensive took

Along th’unhallow'd shade.

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