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THE pineapples, in triple row,
Were basking hot, and all in blow;
A bee of most discerning taste,
Perceiv'd the fragrance as he pass'd,
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And search'd for crannies in the frame,
Urg'd his attempt on ev'ry side,
To ev'ry pane his trunk applied ;
But still in vain, the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light:
Thus baving wasted half the day,
He trimm’d his flight another way.

Methinks, I said, in thee I find
The sin and madness of mankind.
To joys forbidden man aspires,
Consumes his soul with vain desires;
Folly the spring of his pursuit,
And disappointment all the fruit.
While Cynthio ogles, as she passes,
The nymph between two chariot glasses,
She is the pineapple, and he
The silly unsuccessful bee.
The maid, who views with pensive air
The show-glass fraught with glittring ware,



Book II. Ode X.

RECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teacher
So shalt thou live beyond the reach

Of adverse Fortune's pow'r ;
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep
Along the treach'rous shore.

He, that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Imbitt'ring all his state.

The tallest pipes feel most the pow'r
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tow'r

Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts, that spare the mountain's side,
His cloud-capt eminence divide,
And spread the ruin round.

The well-inform'd philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,

And hopes, in spite of pain ;

If Winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth,
And Nature laughs again.

What if thine heav'n be overcast,
The dark appearance will not last;

Expect a brighter sky.
The God that strings the silver bow,
Awakes sometimes the muses too,
And lays his arrows by.

If hind'rances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen;
But 0 ! if fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,

Take half thy canvass in.



AND is this all? Can Reason do no more,
Than bid me shup the deep, and dread the shore?
Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea,
The Christian has an art unknown to thee.
He holds no parley with unmanly fears ;
Where duty bids, he confidently steers,
Faces a thousand dangers at her call,
And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all.

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