Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/102

 ODE ON THE DIVERSITY To him, 0 Muse,'thy semblance, holy, Wears the staid garb of melancholy; And oft, his lonely hours around, Thou fling'st a shade of deeper gloom; And lead'st him where, with moaning soumli The dark yew waves above the tomb: There, all night long, with spirits', dread, His soul mysterious converse holds, Recals the lost,' evokes the dead, And reads the secrets that the grave, infolds. Strike the light tabret, gaily twine The rose, the myrtle, and the vine! On bliss, alone, the strain employ; Let every pulse respond to joy, And pour the choicest sweets on earth, To hail the Bard, who dwells with Mirth. But false the transport, vain the 'lay, Which only dazzles to betray. To him no wreaths of fame belong, No lofty attributes of song, Who prostitutes that priceless treasure To the venal court of Pleasure, Racks fancy, and' exhausts his soul, To paint the raptures of the bowl, ......... Google

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