MARK AKENSIDE
Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bring
To this sequester'd spot,
If then the plaintive Siren sing,
O softly tread beneath her bower
And think of Heaven's disposing power,
Of man's uncertain lot.
To this sequester'd spot,
If then the plaintive Siren sing,
O softly tread beneath her bower
And think of Heaven's disposing power,
Of man's uncertain lot.
O think, o'er all this mortal stage
What mournful scenes arise;
What ruin waits on kingly rage;
How often virtue dwells with woe;
How many griefs from knowledge flow,
How swiftly pleasure flies!
What mournful scenes arise;
What ruin waits on kingly rage;
How often virtue dwells with woe;
How many griefs from knowledge flow,
How swiftly pleasure flies!
O sacred bird! let me at eve,
Thus wandering all alone,
Thy tender counsel oft receive,
Bear witness to thy pensive airs,
And pity Nature's common cares,
Till I forget my own.
Thus wandering all alone,
Thy tender counsel oft receive,
Bear witness to thy pensive airs,
And pity Nature's common cares,
Till I forget my own.
THOMAS OSBERT MORDAUNT
1730–1809
476
The Call
SOUND, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
Throughout the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
Throughout the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
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