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And blend with these the varying stalks,
That fancy's hand in sport may strew,
Or wisdom scatter in her walks,
Or pity bring all damp with dew.
And if you rove in lonely hour,
Where rudely rocks on rocks are pil'd,
Perhaps some unexpected flow'r
May pour its sweetness on the wild.
But all in vain this anxious round,
In vain the sweets by genius given,
Unless with these that flow'r is found,
Whose rich perfume ascends to Heav'n.
TRANSIENT JOY.
HOW from the changeful tablet of our days,
Fleets the light trace of joy. First through the clouds
Serene it breaks, and on the lucid ray
The pleas'd eye fixes. Hap'ly too the heart
Hangs there too fondly; and perchance the soul,
