 | Original Poems and Translations |  |
37
AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND IN YORKSHIRE.
Happy the Briton, whom indulgent Fate
Has fix'd securely in the middle state,
The golden mean, where joys for ever flow,
Nor riches raise too high, nor wants depress too low;
Stranger to faction, in his calm retreat,
Far from the noise of cities, and the great,
His days, like streams, that feed the vivid grass,
And give fair flowers to flourish as they pass,
Weaving their way, in sacred silence flow,
And scarcely breathe a murmur as they go.
No hopes, nor fears his steady mind can vex,
No schemes of state, or politics perplex:
Whate'er propitious Providence has sent
He holds sufficient, and himself content.
Tho' no proud columns grace his marble hall,
Nor Claude nor Guido animate the wall;
Blest who with sweet security can find,
In health of body, and in peace of mind,
His easy moments pass without offence
In the still joys of rural innocence.
Such was the life our ancestors admir'd,
And thus illustrious from the world retir'd:
Thus to the woodland shades my friend repairs
With the lov'd partner of his joys and cares,
Whose social temper can his griefs allay,
And smile each light anxiety away:
In cheerful converse sweetly form'd to please,
With wit good-natur'd, and polite with ease:
Blest with plain prudence, ignorant of art,
Her native goodness wins upon your heart.
Not fond of state, nor eager of controul,
Her face reflects the beauties of her soul.
Such charms still bloom when youth shall fade away,
And the brief roses of the face decay.
Has fix'd securely in the middle state,
The golden mean, where joys for ever flow,
Nor riches raise too high, nor wants depress too low;
Stranger to faction, in his calm retreat,
Far from the noise of cities, and the great,
His days, like streams, that feed the vivid grass,
And give fair flowers to flourish as they pass,
Weaving their way, in sacred silence flow,
And scarcely breathe a murmur as they go.
No hopes, nor fears his steady mind can vex,
No schemes of state, or politics perplex:
Whate'er propitious Providence has sent
He holds sufficient, and himself content.
38
Nor Claude nor Guido animate the wall;
Blest who with sweet security can find,
In health of body, and in peace of mind,
His easy moments pass without offence
In the still joys of rural innocence.
Such was the life our ancestors admir'd,
And thus illustrious from the world retir'd:
Thus to the woodland shades my friend repairs
With the lov'd partner of his joys and cares,
Whose social temper can his griefs allay,
And smile each light anxiety away:
In cheerful converse sweetly form'd to please,
With wit good-natur'd, and polite with ease:
Blest with plain prudence, ignorant of art,
Her native goodness wins upon your heart.
Not fond of state, nor eager of controul,
Her face reflects the beauties of her soul.
Such charms still bloom when youth shall fade away,
And the brief roses of the face decay.
39
O! would propitious Heav'n fulfil my prayer,
(The bliss of man is Providence's care)
Such be the tranquil tenour of my life,
And such the virtues of my future wife;
With her in calm, domestic leisure free,
Let me possess serene obscurity;
In acts of meek benevolence delight,
And to the widow recompense her mite.
Thus far from crowds, not thoughtless of my end,
With reading, musing, writing, and a friend,
May silent pleasures every hour delude
In sweet oblivion of solicitude.
(The bliss of man is Providence's care)
Such be the tranquil tenour of my life,
And such the virtues of my future wife;
With her in calm, domestic leisure free,
Let me possess serene obscurity;
In acts of meek benevolence delight,
And to the widow recompense her mite.
Thus far from crowds, not thoughtless of my end,
With reading, musing, writing, and a friend,
May silent pleasures every hour delude
In sweet oblivion of solicitude.
Cambridge, 1741.
| Original Poems and Translations | |