LINES TO HEALTH,Upon the Recovery of a Friend from a dangerous Illness.Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek!Whene’er to thee I raise my handsUpon the mountain’s breezy peak,Or on the yellow winding sands,If thou hast deign’d, by Pity mov’d,This fev’rish phantom to prolong,I’ve touch’d my lute, for ever lov’d,And bless’d thee with its earliest song!And oh! if in thy gentle earIts simple notes have sounded sweet,May the soft breeze, to thee so dear,Now bear them to thy rose-wreath’d seat!For thou hast dried the dew of grief,And Friendship feels new ecstacy:To Pollio thou hast stretch’d relief,And, raising him, hast cherish’d me.So, whilst some treasur’d plant receivesTh’ admiring florist’s partial show’r,The drops that tremble from its leavesOft feed some near uncultur’d flow’r.For late connubial Fondness hungMute o’er the couch where Pollio lay;Love, Hope, and Sorrow, fixed her tongue,Thro’ sable night till morning grey.There, too, by drooping Pollio’s side,Stood Modesty, a mourner meek,Whilst Genius, mov’d by grief and pride,Increas’d the blush which grac’d her cheek;For much the maiden he reprov’dFor having spread her veil of snowUpon the mind he form’d and lov’d,Till she was seen to mourn it too.O Health! when thou art fled, how vainThe witchery of earth and skies,Love’s look, or music’s sweetest strain,Or Ocean’s softest lullabies!Oh! ever hover near his bow’r,There let thy fav’rite sylphs repair;Fence it with ev’ry sweet-lipp’d flow’r,That Sickness find no entrance there.So shall his lyre, untouch’d so long,The tone with which it charm’d regain;Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song,With mine, to breathe the grateful strain.
Upon the Recovery of a Friend from a dangerous Illness.
Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek!Whene’er to thee I raise my handsUpon the mountain’s breezy peak,Or on the yellow winding sands,If thou hast deign’d, by Pity mov’d,This fev’rish phantom to prolong,I’ve touch’d my lute, for ever lov’d,And bless’d thee with its earliest song!And oh! if in thy gentle earIts simple notes have sounded sweet,May the soft breeze, to thee so dear,Now bear them to thy rose-wreath’d seat!For thou hast dried the dew of grief,And Friendship feels new ecstacy:To Pollio thou hast stretch’d relief,And, raising him, hast cherish’d me.So, whilst some treasur’d plant receivesTh’ admiring florist’s partial show’r,The drops that tremble from its leavesOft feed some near uncultur’d flow’r.For late connubial Fondness hungMute o’er the couch where Pollio lay;Love, Hope, and Sorrow, fixed her tongue,Thro’ sable night till morning grey.There, too, by drooping Pollio’s side,Stood Modesty, a mourner meek,Whilst Genius, mov’d by grief and pride,Increas’d the blush which grac’d her cheek;For much the maiden he reprov’dFor having spread her veil of snowUpon the mind he form’d and lov’d,Till she was seen to mourn it too.O Health! when thou art fled, how vainThe witchery of earth and skies,Love’s look, or music’s sweetest strain,Or Ocean’s softest lullabies!Oh! ever hover near his bow’r,There let thy fav’rite sylphs repair;Fence it with ev’ry sweet-lipp’d flow’r,That Sickness find no entrance there.So shall his lyre, untouch’d so long,The tone with which it charm’d regain;Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song,With mine, to breathe the grateful strain.