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ODE V.
Is there in nature no kind pow'r
To sooth affliction's lonely hour?
To blunt the edge of dire disease,
And teach these wintry shades to please?
Come, Chearfulness, triumphant fair,
Shine thro' the hovering cloud of care;
O sweet of language, mild of mien,
O virtue's friend and pleasure's queen!
Asswage the flames that burn my breast;
Attune my jarring thoughts to rest;
And while thy gracious gifts I feel,
My song shall all thy praise reveal.
As once ('twas in Astræa's reign)
The vernal pow'rs renew'd their train,
It happen'd that immortal Love
Was ranging thro' the spheres above,
And downward hither cast his eye
The year's returning pomp to spy,
2
He
