O, ask not what the morn will bring,But count as gain each day that chanceMay give you; sport in life's young spring,Nor scorn sweet love, nor merry dance,While years are green, while sullen eldIs distant. Now the walk, the game,The whisper'd talk at sunset held,Each in its hour, prefer their claim.Sweet too the laugh, whose feign'd alarmThe hiding-place of beauty tells,The token, ravish'd from the armOr finger, that but ill rebels.Grandson of Atlas, wise of tongue,O Mercury, whose wit could tameMan's savage youth by power of songAnd plastic game!Thee sing I, herald of the sky,Who gav'st the lyre its music sweet,Hiding whate'er might please thine eyeIn frolic cheat.