University of Virginia Library

Ye gentle Pow'rs, (if any such there be,
And, if there be not, 'tis a sweet mistake
To think there be) that day by day, unseen,
Where souls, unanimous and link'd in love,
In sober converse spend the vacant hour,
Hover above, and in the cup of life
A cordial pour which all its bitter drowns,
And gives the hasty minutes as they pass
Unwonted fragrance; come and aid my song.
In that clear fountain of eternal love
Which flows for ay at the right hand of him,
The great Incomprehensible ye serve,
Dip my advent'rous pen, that nothing vile,
Of the chaste eye or ear unworthy, may
In this my early song be seen or heard.

Sing then, my Muse, the rural Curate's steps,
His modes of living, manners, and pursuits.
One year the limits of thy song confine,
From early spring till spring again return.

Then let the bard begin, when Winter yet
Powders the lawn with snow, and on our eaves
Hangs the chaste icicle. Be that the time,
When the tir'd sportsman lays his gun aside,
Nor wages ineffectual war again
On partridge race. The day St. Valentine,
When maids are brisk, and at the break of day
Start up, and turn their pillows, curious all
To know what happy swain the fates provide
A mate for life. Then follows thick discharge
Of true-love knots and sonnets nicely penn'd;
But, to the learned critic's eye, no verse,
But prose distracted, galloping away
Like yelping cur with kettle at his tail.
Forgive the thought, ye maids of poesy,
And be as kind as fair. Critics may laugh
And yet approve; and I your pains applaud,
Though short of excellence. I love the maid
Who has ambition, and betrays a mind
Of active and ingenious turn; who scorns
Only to know what fashion and the age
Require, and can do more than flirt her fan,
Read novels, dance with grace, sing playhouse airs,
Speak scandal, daub or vellum or her face,
Retail some half-a-dozen terms in French,
And twice as many English, and dispatch
By every post a tedious manuscript,
Which to translate would crack the very brain
Of Arabic Professor. O ye fair,
Ye were design'd for nobler flights than these;
Nature on you as well as us bestow'd
The good capacity. And though to us
She gave the nicer judgment, yet she hid
The sweet defect in you, with better skill
To clothe the fair idea, keener eye,
And quicker apprehension. 'Tis in you
Imagination glows in all her strength,
Gay as the robe of spring, and we delight
To see you pluck her blossoms, and compose
The cheerful nosegay for the swain you love.
What if Alcanor's self should not disdain
To imitate your toils, but sometimes hang
Ill-woven chaplets on Maria's brow,
Which needs no ornament to make it please
With sweeter grace. The hour so spent shall live,
Not unapplauded, in the book of Heav'n.
For dear and precious as the moments are
Permitted man, they are not all for deeds
Of active virtue. Give we none to vice,
And Heav'n will not strict reparation ask
For many a summer's day and winter's eve
So spent as best amuses us. Alas!
If He that made us were extreme to mark
The trifled hour, what human soul could live?
We trifle all, and he who best deserves
Is but a trifler. What art thou whose eye
Follows my pen, or what am I that write?
Both triflers. 'Tis a trifling world, from him
Who banquets daintily in sleeves of lawn,
To him who starves upon a country cure:
From him who is the pilot of a state,
To him who begs, and rather begs than works.

Then blame we not Alcanor for his pains,
Nor think him misemploy'd, what time he sits
Eager to clothe the new-born thought, and wooes
The maiden Meditation, hard to win,
For terms of apt significance. Nor then,
When Winter, better pleas'd, puts on a smile,
And round his garden at high noon he walks,
Not unattended, and the daffodil
And early snowdrop welcomes, pensive flow'r.
Nor needs he then excuse, what time he starts,
To mark the progress of the morning sun,
As northward from his equinox he steers,
And once again brings on the glorious year.
Sweet are the graces which the steps attend
Of early morning, when, the clouded brow
Of winter smooth'd, up from her orient couch
She springs, and, like a maid betroth'd, puts on
Her bridal suit, and with an ardent smile
Comes forth to greet her lover. To my eye,
As well as thine, Alcanor, grateful 'tis,
Ay passing sweet, to mark the cautious pace
Of slow-returning Spring, e'en from the time
When first the matted apricot unfolds
His tender bloom, till the full orchard glows;
From when the gooseberry first shews a leaf,
Till the high wood is clad, and the broad oak
Yields to the fly-stung ox a shade at noon
Sun proof. How charming 'tis, to see sweet May
Laugh in the rear of Winter, and put on
Her gay apparel to begin anew
The wanton year. See where apace she comes
As fair, as young, as brisk, as when from Heav'n
Before the Founder of the world she tripp'd
To Paradise rejoicing: the light breeze
Wafts to the sense a thousand odours; Hark!
The cheerful music which attends.

O Man,
Would on thyself alone the awful doom
Of death had past! It grieves me to the soul
To think how soon the blooming year shall fade,
How soon the leafy honours of the vale
Be shed, the blossom nipt, and the bare branch
Howl dreary music in the ear of Winter.
Yet let us live, and, while we may, rejoice,
And not our present joy disturb with thought
Of evils sure to come, and by no art
Be shunn'd.

Come hither, fool, who vainly think'st
Thine only is the art to plumb the depth
Of truth and wisdom. 'Tis a friend who calls,
And has some honest pity left for thee,
O thoughtless stubborn Sceptic. Look abroad,
And tell me, shall we to blind chance ascribe
The scene so wonderful, so fair, and good?
Shall we no farther search than sense will lead,
To find the glorious cause which so delights
The eye and ear, and scatters ev'ry where
Ambrosial perfumes? Is there not a hand
Which operates unseen, and regulates
The vast machine we tread on? Yes, there is
Who first created the great world, a work
Of deep construction, complicately wrought,
Wheel within wheel; though all in vain we strive
To trace remote effects through the thick maze
Of movements intricate, confus'd and strange,
Up to the great Artificer who made
And guides the whole. What if we see him not?
No more can we behold the busy soul
Which animates ourselves. Man to himself
Is all a miracle. I cannot see
The latent cause, yet such I know there is,
Which gives the body motion, nor can tell
By what strange impulse the so ready limb
Performs the purposes of will. How then
Shalt thou or I, who cannot span ourselves,
In this our narrow vessel comprehend
The being of a God. Go to the shore,
Cast in thy slender angle, and draw out
The huge Leviathan. Compress the deep,
And shut it up within the hollow round
Of the small hazel-nut: or freight the shell
Of snail or cockle with the glorious sun,
And all the worlds that live upon his beams,
The goodly apparatus that rides round
The glowing axle-tree of Heav'n. Then come,
And I will grant 'tis thine to scale the height
Of wisdom infinite, and comprehend
Secrets incomprehensible; to know
There is no God, and what the potent cause
Which the revolving universe upholds,
And not requires a Deity at hand.

Persuade me not, insulting disputant,
That I shall die, the wick of life consum'd,
And, spite of all my hopes, sink to the grave,
Never to rise again. Will the great God,
Who thus by annual miracle restores
The perish'd year, and youth and beauty gives
By resurrection strange, where none was ask'd,
Leave only man to be the scorn of time
And sport of death? Shall only he one spring,
One hasty summer, and one autumn see,
And then to winter irredeemable
Be doom'd, cast out, rejected, and despis'd?
Tell me not so, or by thyself enjoy
The melancholy thought. Am I deceiv'd?
Be my mistake eternal. If I err,
It is an error sweet and lucrative.
For should not Heav'n a farther course intend
Than the short race of life, I am at least
Thrice happier than thou, ill-boding fool,
Who striv'st in vain the awful doom to fly
Which I not fear. But I shall live again,
And still on that sweet hope shall my soul feed.
A medicine it is, which with a touch
Heals all the pains of life; a precious balm,
Which makes the tooth of sorrow venomless,
And of her hornet sting so keen disarms
Cruel Adversity—

A truce to thought,
And come, Alcanor, Julia, Isabel,
Eliza come, and let us o'er the fields,
Across the down, or through the shelving wood,
Wind our uncertain way. Let fancy lead,
And be it ours to follow, and admire,
As well we may, the graces infinite
Of nature. Lay aside the sweet resource
Which winter needs, and may at will obtain,
Of authors chaste and good, and let us read
The living page, whose ev'ry character
Delights and gives us wisdom. Not a tree,
A plant, a leaf, a blossom, but contains
A folio volume. We may read, and read,
And read again, and still find something new,
Something to please, and something to instruct.
E'en in the noisome weed. See, ere we pass
Alcanor's threshold, to the curious eye
A little monitor presents her page
Of choice instruction, with her snowy bells
The lily of the vale. She nor affects
The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day sun.
She to no state or dignity aspires,
But silent and alone puts on her suit,
And sheds her lasting perfume, but for which
We had not known there was a thing so sweet
Hid in the gloomy shade. So when the blast
Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth
Stoops their high heads that vainly were expos'd,
She feels it not, but flourishes anew,
Still shelter'd and secure. And so the storm,
That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak,
The humble lily spares. A thousand blows,
Which shake the lofty monarch on his throne,
We lesser folk feel not. Keen are the pains
Advancement often brings. To be secure,
Be humble; to be happy, be content.
All is not gold, Eliza, which the eye
Delights in. To command a coach and six,
Be styl'd my Lady, or your Grace, to lead
In fashion, shine at court, be cloth'd in silk,
And make an artificial day, beset
With eye-distressing jewels, are but charms
Which lift you from the crowd, to be the mock
Of hissing envy; steps they are, that lead
Unwary maids to fortune's pillory,
To be the butt of undeserv'd reproach
And lying slander. Hast thou not observ'd
The idle school-boy, through a field of wheat
Scarce ripe, returning home, with what delight
He trims a switch, and strikes at the full ear
Most eminent, and still walks on and strikes?
So Fortune gambols with the great, and still,
As one above another climbs, condemns,
And makes him shorter by the head. Well-pleas'd,
No doubt, Alcanor's self were, should by chance
An eddy seize him in the stream of life,
And bear him to a throne, of all this isle
Grand Metropolitan: but trust me, Sir,
Nor Laud nor Tillotson would stoop again
To bear the golden burden. But with him
Sweet peace abounds, and only he escapes
The poison'd shafts of obloquy and wrong,
Who hides his virtue in content; and, like
This modest lily, wins our best regard
By studying to avoid it. Virtue too
Will ever thus her lone retreat betray,
And, spite of privacy, be sought and seen;
For she has fragrance, which delights the sense
Of men and angels, yea, of God himself.—

Away, we loiter. Without notice pass
The sleepy crocus, and the staring daisy
The courtier of the sun. What find we there?
The love-sick cowslip, which her head inclines
To hide a bleeding heart. And here's the meek
And soft-ey'd primrose. Dandelion this,
A college youth who flashes for a day
All gold; anon he doffs his gaudy suit,
Touch'd by the magic hand of some grave Bishop.
And all at once, by commutation strange,
Becomes a Reverend Divine. How sleek!
How full of grace! and in that globous wig,
So nicely trimm'd, unfathomable stores,
No doubt, of erudition most profound.
Each hair is learned, and his awful phiz,
A well-drawn title-page, gives large account
Of matters strangely complicate within.
Place the two doctors each by each, my friends,
Which is the better? say. I blame not you,
Ye powder'd periwigs, which hardly hide,
With glossy suit and well-fed paunch to boot,
The understanding lean and beggarly.
But let me tell you, in the pompous globe,
Which rounds the dandelion's head, is couch'd
Divinity most rare. I never pass
But he instructs me with a still discourse,
That more persuades than all the vacant noise
Of pulpit rhetoric; for vacant 'tis,
And vacant must it be, by vacant heads
Supported.

Leave we them to mend, and mark
The melancholy hyacinth, that weeps
All night, and never lifts an eye all day.

How gay this meadow!—like a gamesome boy
New cloth'd, his locks fresh comb'd and powder'd, he
All health and spirits. Scarce so many stars
Shine in the azure canopy of heav'n,
As king-cups here are scatter'd, interspers'd
With silver daisies.

See, the toiling hind
With many a sturdy stroke cuts up at last
The tough and sinewy furze. How hard he fought
To fell the glory of the barren waste!
For what more noble than the vernal furze
With golden baskets hung? Approach it not,
For ev'ry blossom has a troop of swords
Drawn to defend it. 'Tis the treasury
Of Fays and Fairies. Here they nightly meet,
Each with a burnish'd king-cup in his hand,
And quaff the subtil ether. Here they dance
Or to the village chimes, or moody song
Of midnight Philomel. The ringlet see
Fantastically trod. There Oberon
His gallant train leads out, the while his torch
The glow-worm lights, and dusky night illumes:
And there they foot it featly round, and laugh.
The sacred spot the superstitious ewe
Regards, and bites it not in reverence.
Anon the drowsy clock tolls one—the cock
His clarion sounds, the dance breaks off, the lights
Are quench'd, the music hush'd, they speed away
Swifter than thought, and still the break of morn
Outrun, and chasing midnight as she flies
Pursue her round the globe. So Fancy weaves
Her flimsy web, while sober Reason sits,
And smiling wonders at the puny work,
A net for her; then springs on eagle wing,
Constraint defies, and soars above the sun.
Not always such her flight. For croaking dames
And silly mothers oft conspire to clip
Her infant wing, and feed her full with fears,
Till all her energy expires, and she,
Caught in the snare of fancy, lives and quakes
Pris'ner for life. O thoughtless managers!

See where the sky-blue periwinkle climbs
E'en to the cottage eaves, and hides the loam
And dairy lattice with a thousand eyes,
Pentagonally form'd, to mock the skill
Of proud geometers. See there the fern
Unclenching all her fingers, to distract
The plodding theorist, who little sees,
And tortures reason for the rest. Behold,
And trust him not, the seed. So errors live,
Truth dies, and ev'ry day we need a Brown
To set a jangling world to rights.

No more:
But mark with how peculiar grace yon wood,
That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze
Her sea of leaves: thither we turn our steps,
And as we pass attend the cheerful sound
Of woodland harmony, which ever fills
The merry vale between. How sweet the song
Day's harbinger performs! I have not heard
Such elegant divisions drawn from art.
And what is he that wins our admiration?
A little speck which floats upon the sun-beam.
What vast perfection cannot nature crowd
Into a puny point! The nightingale,
Her solo anthem sung, and all who heard
Content, joins in the chorus of the day.
She, gentle heart, thinks it no pain to please,
Nor, like the moody songsters of the world,
Displays her talent, pleases, takes affront,
And locks it up in envy.

Now we hear
The golden wood-pecker, who like the fool
Laughs loud at nothing. Now the restless pye:
So, pert and garrulous, from morn to night
The scandal-monger prates, and frankly tells
The secret springs which actuate the state,
The minister, the people. She can see,
With easy eye, who stands, who falls, who rises;
Who little merits, and who best deserves;
And thus she murders truth, and propagates
The public lie, extorting many a tear
And many a sigh from wounded innocence.
Yes, Isabel, if ev'ry idle word
Have awful weight in heav'n, no feeble deed
Will turn the scale in favour of that fool,
Who prattles injury, and worth defames,
From gay fifteen to tremulous fourscore!

Hark, how the cuckoo mocks the village bells.
The jay attend, a very termagant.

Observe the glossy raven in the grass
Croaking rude courtship to his negro mate.
Yes, he's a flatterer, and in his song,
If such it may be call'd, her charms recites.
He tells her of her bosom black as jet,
Her taper leg, her penetrating eye,
Her shapely beak, her soft and silky wing,
Her voice melodious—waddles courteous round,
Vows to be constant, prays humane return—
Solicitous in vain he claps his wing
And flies; she much against her will pursues.

I love to see the little goldfinch pluck
The groundsel's feather'd seed, and twit and twit,
And soon in bower of apple blossoms perch'd,
Trim his gay suit, and pay us with a song.
I would not hold him pris'ner for the world.

The chimney-haunting swallow too, my eye
And ear well pleases. I delight to see
How suddenly he skims the glassy pool,
How quaintly dips, and with a bullet's speed
Whisks by. I love to be awake, and hear
His morning song twitter'd to dawning day.
But most of all it wins my admiration,
To view the structure of this little work,
A bird's nest. Mark it well, within, without.
No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut,
No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,
No glue to join; his little beak was all.
And yet how neatly finish'd! What nice hand,
With ev'ry implement and means of art,
And twenty years apprenticeship to boot,
Could make me such another? Fondly then
We boast of excellence, whose noblest skill
Instinctive genius foils.

The bee observe;
She too an artist is, and laughs at man,
Who calls on rules the sightly hexagon
With truth to form; a cunning architect,
Who at the roof begins her golden work,
And builds without foundation. How she toils,
And still from bud to bud, from flow'r to flow'r,
Travels the livelong day. Ye idle drones,
Who rather pilfer than your bread obtain
By honest means like these, behold and learn
How good, how fair, how honourable 'tis
To live by industry. The busy tribes
Of bees so emulous are daily fed
With heaven's peculiar manna. 'Tis for them,
Unwearied alchymists, the blooming world
Nectareous gold distils. And bounteous heav'n,
Still to the diligent and active good,
Their very labour makes the certain cause
Of future wealth. The little traveller,
Who toils so cheerfully from flow'r to flow'r,
For ever singing as she goes, herself
Bears on her wings and thighs the genial dust
The barren blossom needs, and the young seed
Impregnates for herself, else unprolific.

How peaceable and solemn a retreat
This wood affords! I love to quit the glare
Of sultry day for shadows cool as these:
The sober twilight of this winding way
Lets fall a serious gloom upon the mind,
Which checks, but not appals. Such is the haunt
Religion loves, a meek and humble maid,
Whose tender eye bears not the blaze of day.
And here with Meditation hand in hand
She walks, and feels her often-wounded heart
Renew'd and heal'd. Speak softly. We presume
A whisper is too loud for solitude
So mute and still.

So have I gone at night,
When the faint eye of day was hardly clos'd,
And turn'd the grating key which kept the door
Of church or chapel, to enjoy alone
The mournful horrors, which impending night
And painted windows shed along the dark
And scarce to be distinguish'd aisle. My foot
Has stood and paus'd, half startled at the sound
Of its own tip-toe pace. I've held my breath,
And been offended that my nimble heart
Should throb so audibly. I would not hear
Aught else disturb the silent reign of death,
Save the dull ticking of a lazy clock.
That calls me home, and leads the pious soul
Through mazes of reflection, till she feels
For whom and why she lives. Ye timid fair,
I never saw the sheeted ghost steal by,
I never heard th' unprison'd dead complain
And gibber in my ear, though I have lov'd
The yawning time of night, and travell'd round
And round again the mansions of the dead.
Yet have I heard, what fancy well might deem
Sufficient proof of both, the prowling owl
Sweep by, and with a hideous shriek awake
The church-yard echo, and I too have stood
Harrow'd and speechless at the dismal sound.
But here she frays us not. Such scenes as these
No ghost frequents. If any spirits here,
They are as gentle as the eve of day,
And only come to turn our wand'ring steps
From lurking danger. With what easy grace
This footway winds about! Shew me designs
That please us more. What strict geometer
Can carve his yew, his quickset, or his box,
To half its elegance? I would not see
A thousand paces forward, nor be led
Through mazes ever serpentine. Let art
Be hid in nature. Wind the flow'ry path,
But be not bound to follow Hogarth's line.
I grant it beauty; but, too often seen,
That beauty pleases not. I love to meet
A sudden turn like this, which stops me short,
Extravagantly devious, and invites
Or up the hill or down; then winds again,
By reeling drunkard trod, and sudden ends
In a green swarded wain-way, not unlike
Cathedral aisle completely roof'd with boughs,
Which stretching up-hill through the gloomy wood
Displays at either end a giant door
Wide open'd. Travel not the steep, nor tread
With hardly sensible advance the hill
Which baffles expedition. Gaze awhile
At the still view below, the living scene
Inimitable nature has hung up
At the vault's end, then disappear again,
And follow still the flexile path, conceal'd
In shady underwood. Nor sometimes scorn
Under the high majestic oak to sit,
And comment on his leaf, his branch, his arm
Paternally extended, his vast girth,
And ample hoop above. To him who loves
To walk with contemplation, ev'ry leaf
Affords a tale concluding with a moral.
The very hazel has a tongue to teach,
The birch, the maple, horn-beam, beech, and ash.

But these detain us not, for the faint sun
Puts on a milder countenance, and skirts
The undulated clouds that cross his way
With soften'd glory. His warm axle cools,
And his broad disc, tho' fervent, not intense,
Foretells the near approach of matron night.
Ye fair, retreat. Your drooping flow'rs will need
Kind nutriment. Along the hedge-row path
Hasten we homeward. Only pause our speed
To gaze a moment at the custom'd brow,
Which ever unexpectedly displays
The clear cerulean prospect of the vale.
Dispers'd along the bottom flocks and herds,
Hayricks and cottages, beside a stream
Which silverly meanders here and there;
Above the brook, corn-fields, and pastures, hops,
And waving woods, and tufts, and lonely oaks,
Thick interspers'd as Nature best was pleas'd.
I could not pass this view, nor stay to feast,
For all the wealth of Ind. Ingenious painter,
Why leave a land so delicately cloth'd,
To gather beauties on a foreign shore?
'Twas here my Shakespear caught his living art,
And who can paint like him? To British eyes
Shew British beauties. Who can choose but love?
Paint me the fair ones of my native isle;
Your canvass shall have charms no time can kill.
The foreign belle, though fair, attracts me not.

Another moment pause, and to the vale,
From the calm precipice we tread, look back.
See where the school-boy, once again dismiss'd,
Feels all the bliss of liberty, and drives
The speedy hour away at the brisk game
Of social cricket. It delights me much
To see him run, and hear the cheerful shout
Sent up for victory. I cannot tell
What rare effect the mingled sound may yield
Of huntsmen, hounds, and horns, to firmer hearts,
Which never feel a pain for flying puss;
To me it gives a pleasure far more sweet,
To hear the cry of infant jubilee
Exulting thus. Here all is innocent,
And free from pain, which the resounding chase,
With its gigantic clamours cannot drown,
E'en though it pour along a thund'ring peal,
Strong as the deep artillery of heav'n.

Now turn, and from the pleasant summit view
Alcanor's cell. Before, the garden see
Well shorn and spruce; behind, the neat domain
Of cow and truant poney, who approves
All pastures but his own. Seen from afar,
It seems, methinks, a party-colour'd spot
Upon a sampler little Miss has work'd
To please her grandam. Love it still, ye fair;
Enjoy it still, Alcanor. Here who will
May live in satisfaction truly sweet,
Which York or Lambeth cannot give. Who strays,
Shall taste a thousand pains unfelt at home.
We fondly think the land of happiness
Is any where but here. And thus we quit
The little bliss we own for less, and learn
From painful circumstance, the more we stray,
The more we want relief. The troubled heart
Which harbours discontent, feeds a disease
No change of place, no medicine can cure.
Happy the man who truly loves his home,
And never wanders farther from his door
Than we have stray'd to-day; who feels his heart
Still drawing homeward, and delights, like us,
Once more to rest his foot on his own threshold.

Alcanor, Julia, Isabel, Eliza,
Here let us pause, and ere still night advance
To shut the books of heav'n, look back and see
What commendable act has sprung to-day.
Ah! who can boast? The little good we do
In all the years of life will scarce outweigh
The follies of an hour.

Adieu, ye fair;
We leave you to your task, nor give you aid
As wont. Rear'd by your hands alone, the flow'r
Shall have a ruddier blush, a sweeter fragrance.
Alcanor, come, and let us once again
Descend into the valley, and enjoy
The sober peace of the still summer's eve.
We have no blush to lose; our freckled cheek
The sun not blisters, nor the night-dew blasts.
Such is the time the musing poet loves.
Now vigorous imagination teems,
And, warm with meditation, brings to birth
Her admirable thought. I love to hear
The silent rook to the high wood make way
With rustling wing; to mark the wanton mouse,
And see him gambol round the primrose head,
Till the still owl comes smoothly sailing forth,
And with a shrill to-whit breaks off his dance,
And sends him scouring home; to hear the cur
Of the night-loving partridge, or the swell
Of the deep curfew from afar. And now
It pleases me to mark the hooting owl
Perch'd on the naked hop-pole, to attend
The distant cataract, or farmer's cur,
That bays the northern lights or rising moon.
And now I steal along the woody lane,
To hear thy song so various, gentle bird,
Sweet queen of night, transporting Philomel.
I name thee not to give my feeble line
A grace else wanted, for I love thy song,
And often have I stood to hear it sung,
When the clear moon, with Cytherean smile
Emerging from an eastern cloud, has shot
A look of pure benevolence and joy
Into the heart of night. Yes, I have stood
And mark'd thy varied note, and frequent pause,
Thy brisk and melancholy mood, with soul
Sincerely pleas'd. And O, methought, no note
Can equal thine, sweet bird, of all that sing
How easily the chief! Yet have I heard
What pleases me still more—the human voice
In serious sweetness flowing from the heart
Of unaffected woman. I could hark
Till the round world dissolv'd, to the pure strain
Love teaches, gentle Modesty inspires.
But teaze me not, ye self-conceited fools,
Who with a loud insufferable squall
Insult our ears, or hum a noiseless air
Disdaining to be heard; the while ye smile,
To shew a set of teeth newly repair'd,
Or shrink and shrug, to make the crowd admire
Your strange grimaces practis'd at the glass.
O, I abhor it. I would rather hear
A pedlar's kit scrape to a dancing dog.

Melodious bird, good night; good night, Alcanor.
Let us not borrow from the hours of rest,
For we must steal from morning to repay.
And who would lose the animated smile
Of dawning day, for th' austere frown of night?
I grant her well accoutred in her suit
Of dripping sable, powder'd thick with stars,
And much applaud her as she passes by
With a replenish'd horn on either brow;
But more I love to see awaking day
Rise with a fluster'd cheek; a careful maid,
Who fears she has outslept the custom'd hour,
And leaves her chamber blushing. Hence to rest;
I will not prattle longer to detain you
Under the dewy canopy of night.

So have I sung Alcanor and the fair,
Through the slow walk and long beloiter'd day
Of early summer. Let him read who will;
And blame me not, if tardy as the snail
I hardly creep a single mile from home.
It is my humour. Let him speed who will,
And fly like cannon-shot from post to post;
I love to pause, and quit the public road,
To gain a summit, take a view, or pluck
An unknown blossom. What if I dismount,
And leave my steed to graze the while I sit
Under the pleasant lee, or idly roam
Across the pasture, diligent to mark
What passes next? 'Tis English blood that flows
Under the azure covert of these veins.
I love my liberty; and if I sing,
Will sing to please myself, bound by no rule,
The subject of no law.—I cannot think
Praise-worthy excellence is only hit
By servile imitation. In a path
Peculiarly his own great Handel went,
And justly merits our applause, though not
The Homer of his art. In a new course
Went Shakespear, nobly launching forth;
And who shall say he has not found perfection,
Though not a Sophocles? Ye shallow wits,
Who bid us coast it in the learned track,
Nor quit the sight of shore, there is in art
A world unknown, whose treasures only he
Shall spy, and well deserve, who proudly scorns
The second laurel, and exulting steers
Far from the custom'd way. My slender bark
Perchance has rush'd into a boist'rous sea,
Which soon shall overwhelm her: yet I fear
No storms the furious elements can rouse,
And if I fail, shall deem it noble still
To founder in a brave attempt. Once more
The cheerful breeze invites; I fill my sail,
And scud before it. When the critic starts,
And angrily unties his bags of wind,
Then I lay to, and bid the blast go by.