Page:Selections from the American poets (IA selectamerpoet00bryarich).pdf/24
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Joel Barlow.
Yet there, even there, though slily laid,
'Tis folly to defy the spade:
Posterity invades the hill,
And plants our relics where she will.
But oh! forbear the rising sigh!
All care is past with them that die:
Jove gave, when they to fate resign'd,
An opiate of the strongest kind:
Death is a sleep that has no dreams,
In which all time a moment seems;
And skeletons perceive no pain
Till Nature bids them wake again.
'Tis folly to defy the spade:
Posterity invades the hill,
And plants our relics where she will.
But oh! forbear the rising sigh!
All care is past with them that die:
Jove gave, when they to fate resign'd,
An opiate of the strongest kind:
Death is a sleep that has no dreams,
In which all time a moment seems;
And skeletons perceive no pain
Till Nature bids them wake again.
THE HASTY PUDDING.
CANTO I.
Ye Alps audacious, through the heavens that rise,
To cramp the day and hide me from the skies;
Ye Gallic flags, that o'er their heights unfuri'd,
Bear death to kings and freedom to the world,
I sing not you. A softer theme I choose,
A virgin theme, unconscious of the muse,
But fruitful, rich, well suited to inspire
The purest phrensy of poetic fire.
Despise it not, ye bards to terror steel'd,
Who hurl your thunders round the epic field;
Nor ye who strain your midnight throats to sing
Joys that the vineyard and the stillhouse bring;
Or on some distant fair your notes employ,
And speak of raptures that you ne'er enjoy.
I sing the sweets I know the charms I feel,
My morning incense, and my evening meal,
The sweets of Hasty Pudding. Come, dear bowl,
Glide o'er my palate, and inspire my soul.
To cramp the day and hide me from the skies;
Ye Gallic flags, that o'er their heights unfuri'd,
Bear death to kings and freedom to the world,
I sing not you. A softer theme I choose,
A virgin theme, unconscious of the muse,
But fruitful, rich, well suited to inspire
The purest phrensy of poetic fire.
Despise it not, ye bards to terror steel'd,
Who hurl your thunders round the epic field;
Nor ye who strain your midnight throats to sing
Joys that the vineyard and the stillhouse bring;
Or on some distant fair your notes employ,
And speak of raptures that you ne'er enjoy.
I sing the sweets I know the charms I feel,
My morning incense, and my evening meal,
The sweets of Hasty Pudding. Come, dear bowl,
Glide o'er my palate, and inspire my soul.