ODE IX.
47
Nor yet the courtier's hope, the giving smile,
(A lighter phantom and a baser chain)
Bids wealth and place the fever'd night beguile,
To gall my waking hours with more vexacious pain.
But, Morpheus, on thy dewy wing
Such fair auspicious visions bring,
As sooth'd great Milton's injur'd age,
When in prophetic dreams he saw
The tribes unborn with pious awe
Imbibe each virtue from his heav'nly page:
Or such as Mead's benignant fancy knows,
When health's kind treasures, by his art explor'd,
Have sav'd the infant from an orphan's woes,
Or to the trembling sire his age's hope restor'd.
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ODE
