Chorus (from Palamedes)

The thinly-sprinkled stars surrender
To early dawn their dying splendour;
The shades of night are dim and far,
And now before the morning-star
The heavenly legions disappear:
The constellation's charioteer
No longer in the darkness burns,
But backward his bright courser turns.
Now golden Titan, from the sea,
With azure steeds comes gloriously,
And shines o'er woods and dells and downs,
And soaring Ida's leafy crowns.

O sweetly-welcome break of morn!
Thou dost with happiness adorn
The heart of him who cheerily —
Contentedly — unwearily —
Surveys whatever nature gives,
What beauty in her presence lives,
And wanders oft the banks along
Of some sweet stream with murmuring song.
Oh! more than regal is his lot,
Who, in some blest secluded spot,
Remote from crowded cares and fears,
His loved — his cherish'd dwelling rears!
For empty praises never pining,
His wishes to his cot confining,
And listening to each cheerful bird
Whose animating song is heard:
When morning dews, which zephyr's sigh
Has wafted, on the roses lie,
Whose leaves beneath the pearl-drops bend;
When thousand rich perfumes ascend,
And thousand hues adorn the bowers,
And form a rainbow of sweet flowers,
Or bridal robe for Iris made
From every bud in sun or shade.
Contented there to plant or set,
Or snare the birds with crafty net;
To grasp his bending rod, and wander
Beside the banks where waves meander,
And thence their fluttering tenants take;
Or, rising ere the sun's awake,
Prepare his steed, and scour the grounds
And chase the hare with swift-paced hounds;
Or ride beneath the noon-tide rays
Through peaceful glens and silent ways,
Which wind like Cretan labyrinth:
Or where the purple hyacinth
Is glowing on its bed; or where
The meads red-speckled daisies bear.
Whilst maidens milk the grazing cow,
And peasants toil behind the plough,
Or reap the crops beneath their feet,
Or sow luxuriant flax or wheat.
Here flourishes the waving corn,
Encircled by the wounding thorn:
There glides a bark by meadows green,
And there the village smoke is seen:
And there a castle meets the view,
Half-fading in the distance blue.
How hard, how wretched is his doom
Whom sorrows follow to the tomb,
And whom, from morn till quiet eve,
Distresses pain and troubles grieve,
And cares oppress; — for these await
The slave, who in a restless state
Would bid the form of concord flee,
And call his object — liberty.
He finds his actions all pursued
By envy or ingratitude: —
The robe is honouring, I confess,
The cushion has its stateliness; —
But, oh! they are a burthen too!
And pains spring up, for ever new,
Beneath the roof which errors stain,
And where the strife is — who shall reign.

But he who lives in rural ease
Avoids the cares that torture these:
No golden chalices invite
To quaff the deadly aconite;
Nor dreads he secret foes, who lurk
Behind the throne with coward dirk —
Assassin-friends — whose murderous blow
Lays all the pride of greatness low.
No fears his even life annoy,
Nor feels he pride, nor finds he joy
In popularity — that brings
A fickle pleasure, and then — stings.
He is not roused at night from bed,
With weary eyes and giddy head;
At morn no long petitions vex him,
Nor scrutinizing looks perplex him:
He has no joy in others' cares;
He bears — and while he bears, forbears;
And from the world he oft retreats
Where learning's gentle smiles he meets:
He heeds not priestcraft's ban or praise,
But scorns the deep anathemas
Which he, who in his blindness errs,
Receives from these — God's messengers!

Near rocks where danger ever lies,
Through storms of evil auguries
Proceeding from calumnious throats,
The exhausted Palamedes floats:
And shipwreck'd he must be at last,
If Neptune do not kindly cast
Protection round him, and appease
With trident-sway these foaming seas.