ODES. 167 



IV. 



And IMemory, pray what art thou ? 



Art thou of pleasure born ? 

 Djes bliss untainted from thee flow ? 

 The rose that gems thy pensive brow, 

 Is it without a thorn ? 

 With all thy smiles, 

 And \Yitching wiles, 

 Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway dcliles. 



V. 



The drowsy night-watch has forgot 



To call the solemn hour ; 

 LuU'd by the winds he slumbers deep, 

 While I in vain, capricious sleejp, 

 Invoke thy tardy power ; 

 And restless lie, 

 With unclosed eye, 

 And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by. 



ON AVHIT-MONDAY. 



Hark ! how the merry bells ring jocund round, 

 And now they die upon the veering breeze 3 



Anon they thunder loud 



Full on the musing ear. 



Wafted in varying cadence by the shore 

 Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak 



A day of jubilee, — 



An ancient holiday. 



And lo ! the rural revels are begun. 

 And gaily echoing to the laughing sky, 



On the smooth shaven green 



Resounds the voice of Mirth. 



