Foolish mortal! vain your discontent,
Vain your weary longing for repose;
Fill the day with works your hands have wrought;
Sweet shall be the rest your toil has brought.
TWO.
Vainly are we told we may not slumber:
The tired scholar nods above his book;
Little weary children without number
Lie asleep in every curtained nook;
Listless belles, fatigued with last night's trifling,
On soft silken sofas idly pine;
While their languid thoughts are busy rifling
All invention for some new design—
Some new fancy for a glove or shoe-tie,
Over which they muse awhile, then dream;
Fancying they hear some rival's beauty
Lauded by the beau whom all esteem
Quite the lion of the latest season—
When they're rudely wakened by the treason!
Many a graver person, I am thinking,
Should we peep, would be caught napping too;
'Tis so difficult to keep from winking,
At this hour in summer, as you know:
Even the parson, after having dinner,
They really do say, snores like a sinner.
THREE.
Now comes the breeze up from the sea,
And dallies with the elm-tree boughs;
And with the waving willow tree,
Gracefully and capriciously,
Coquettes, and sighs its hollow vows,
The locust's glancing leaves are bright
With sheen they've stolen from the sun;
And rippling back from shade to light,
They dance now to, now from the sight,
