If sweet joys and stolen treasures
Venus' furtive nets enclose,
If divinely-granted pleasures
Yield a breathing-space from woes—
Thine the glory, thine the zest!
Thine the Spring's eternal bloom!
Man has all, of thee possest,
Dark, without thee, lowers his doom.
D. K. Sandford.
The same.
Health, brightest visitant from Heaven,
Grant me with thee to rest!
For the short term by nature given,
Be thou my constant guest!
For all the pride that wealth bestows,
The pleasure that from children flows,
Whate'er we court in regal state
That makes men covet to be great;
Whatever sweet we hope to find
In love's delightful snares,
Whatever good by Heaven assign'd,
Whatever pause from cares,—
All flourish at thy smile divine;
The spring of loveliness is thine,
And every joy that warms our hearts
With thee approaches and departs.—Bland.
The same.
Oh! holiest Health, all other gods excelling,
May I be ever blest
With thy kind favour, and in life's poor dwelling
Be thou, I pray, my constant guest.
If aught of charm or grace to mortal lingers
Round wealth or kingly sway,
Or children's happy faces in their play,
Or those sweet bands, which Aphrodite's fingers
Weave round the trusting heart,
Or whatsoever joy or breathing-space
Kind Heaven hath given to worn humanity—
