76 » METAMORPHOSES, 



And balanced oft her broider'd wings, 

 Thro' fields of air prepared to sail : 



Then on her vent'rous journey springs, 

 And floats along the rising gale. 



Go, child of pleasure, range the fields, 

 Taste all the joys that spring can give, 



Partake what bounteous summer yields, 

 And live whilst yet 'tis thine to live. 



Go sip the rose's fragrant dew, 

 The lily's honeyed cup explore, 



From flower to flower the search renew, 

 And rifle all the woodbine's store : 



And let me trace thy vagrant flight, 

 Thy moments too of short repose, 



And mark thee then with fresh delight 

 Thy golden pinions ope and close. 



But hark ! whilst thus I musing stand, 

 Pours on the gale an airy note, 



And breathing from a viewless band, 

 Soft silvery tones around me float ! 



— They cease — but still a voice I hear, 

 A whisper'd voice of hope and joy, 



" Thy hour of rest approaches near, 



" Prepare thee, mortal ! — thou must die ! 



" Yet start not ! —on thy closing eyes 

 " Another day shall still unfold, 



" A sun of milder radiance rise, 

 " A happier age of joys untold. 



" Shall the poor worm that shocks thy sight, 

 " The humblest form in nature's train, 



" Thus rise in new-born lustre bright, 

 " And yet the emblem teach in vain? 



