MARK AKENSIDE

Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bring

To this sequester'd spot, If then the plaintive Siren sing, O softly tread beneath her bower And think of Heaven's disposing power,

Of man's uncertain lot.

��O think, o'er all this mortal stage What mournful scenes arise*

What ruin waits on kingly rage ;

How often virtue dwells with woe;

How many griefs from knowledge flow, How swiftly pleasure flics'

O sacred bird' let me at eve,

Thus wandering all alone, Thy tender counsel oft receive, Bear witness to thy pensive airs, And pity Nature's common cares,

Till I forget my own.

��THOMAS OSBERT MORDAUNT 476 The Call

^OUND, sound the clarion, fill the fife'

Throughout the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.

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