University of Virginia Library

Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden—of the glorious year,
In all her changes fair; of gentle Spring,
Veil'd in a show'r of roses and perfumes,
Refulgent Summer in the pride of youth,
Mild Autumn with her wain and wheaten sheaf,
Or sullen Winter, loud, and tyrannous;
Let nobler poets sing. Sit thou apart,
And on thine own Parnassus sweep the lyre,
Applauded Hayley, by the Muses taught,
Who in those fairy groves delight to dwell
Which thy hand rear'd. And thou, superior bard,
Who, pris'ner to some fair one's will, hast sung
Thy Task so sweetly, strike again the strong,
The bold, the various energetic chord,
Secure and happy in thy fair retreat.
Be mine the task to sing the man content,
The Village Curate. From no foreign shore
Came he a wand'ring fugitive, and, tost
On angry seas to please a poet's gods,
At length scarce reach'd the hospitable port.
With Father Brute he boasts not to have left
The tott'ring state of Priam, nor his blood
Can shew by lineal catalogue so pure
And only British, that no rude invader
Of Danish, Saxon, or of Norman breed,
Has mix'd with his god-sprung progenitors.
Nor has he clomb the high and hoary tops
Of Snowdon or Plinlimmon; yet in heart
A truer Briton lives not; thee he loves,
O happy England, and will love thee still.

In yonder mansion, rear'd by rustic hands,
And deck'd with no superfluous ornament,
Where use was all the architect propos'd,
And all the master wish'd, which, scarce a mile
From village tumult, to the morning sun
Turns its warm aspect, yet with blossoms hung
Of cherry and of peach, lives happy still
The reverend Alcanor. On a hill,
Half way between the summit and a brook
Which idly wanders at its foot, it stands,
And looks into a valley wood-besprent,
That winds along below. Beyond the brook,
Where the high coppice intercepts it not,
Or social elms, or with his ample waist
The venerable oak, up the steep side
Of yon aspiring hill full opposite,
Luxuriant pasture spreads before his eye
Eternal verdure; save that here and there
A spot of deeper green shews where the swain
Expects a nobler harvest, or high poles
Mark the retreat of the scarce-budded hop,
Hereafter to be eminently fair,
And hide the naked staff that train'd him up
With golden flow'rs. On the hill-top behold
The village steeple, rising from the midst
Of many a rustic edifice; 'tis all
The Pastor's care. For he, ye whipping clerks,
Who with a jockey's speed from morn till night
Gallop amain through sermons, services,
And dirty roads, and barely find the day
Sufficient for your toil—he still disdains
For lucre-sake to do his work amiss,
And starve the flock he undertakes to feed.

Nor does he envy your ignoble ease,
Ye pamper'd Priests, who only eat and sleep,
And sleep and eat, and quaff the tawny juice
Of vet'ran port: sleep on, and take your rest,
Nor quit the downy couch preferment strews
To aid your master. While Alcanor lives,
Though Providence no greater meed design
To crown his labour, than the scanty sum
One cure affords, yet shall he not regret
That he renounc'd a life so little worth
To God and to his country. For he too
Might still have slumber'd in an easy chair,
Or idly lolled upon a sofa, held
A willing captive in the magic chain
Of Alma-mater; but in happy time
Serious occasion cut the golden link,
And set him free, to taste the nobler sweets
Of life domestic. There th' apostate lives,
In habitation neat, but plain and small:
Look in and see, for there no treason lurks,
And he who lives as in the face of Heav'n
Shuns not the eye of man. On either side
The door, that opens with a touch, a room,
The kitchen one, and what you will the other.
There now he sits in meditation lost,
And to the growing page commits with speed
To-morrow's text. Look round, nor fear to rouse
The busy soul, which, on her work intent,
Holds sense a pris'ner, and with cautious bolt
Has barr'd full fast the portals of the mind,
To shut out interruption. Bare the walls—
For here no painter's happy art has taught
The great progenitor to live anew
Upon the smiling canvass. Sculpture here
No ornament has hung of fruit or flow'r;
Nor specimen is here, to shew how well
The imitative style can steal the grace
Which Nature lent the Painter. One poor sheet,
Half almanack, half print, without a frame,
Above the grate hangs unaccompanied:
A kind remembrancer of time to come,
Of fast and festival, expiring terms,
New moon and full. A regal table here
Arrests the eye, and here the brave account
Of Chancellor, High Steward, and their train,
Vice-Chancellor, and Proctors; awful sound,
And still more awful sight to him, that treads
The public street with hat and stick, or wants
That grave appendage of the chin, a band.
Above behold the venerable pile
Some pious Founder rais'd; but stay we not
To call him from his grave, where he perhaps
Would gladly rest unknown, and have an ear
Not to be rous'd by the Archangel's trump.

Yon half-a-dozen shelves support, vast weight!
The Curate's Library. There marshall'd stand
Sages and heroes, modern and antique.
He, their commander, like the vanquish'd fiend
Out-cast of Heav'n, oft through their armed files
Darts an experienc'd eye, and feels his heart
Distend with pride to be their only chief.
Yet needs not he the tedious muster-roll;
The title page of each well-known, his name,
And character. Nor scorns he to converse
With raw recruit or musty veteran,
And oft prefers the mutilated garb
To macaroni suit, bedaub'd with gold,
Which often hides the man of little worth,
And tinsel properties. What need of dress
So fine and gorgeous, if the soul within
Be chaste and pure? The fairest mask put on
Hides not the wrinkle of deformity.
A soul of worth will gild a beggar's frieze,
And on his tatter'd suit a lustre shed
No time can change. Give to the harlot's cheek
The glowing rouge, true virtue needs it not.
Shed perfumes in the chambers of the sick,
The lip of health has odours of its own.

Now mark we, what the master most esteems,
Yon antiquated thing, whose shapeless bulk
Fills half his room, the name a harpsichord.
In days remote the artist liv'd, whose hand
First smooth'd the burnish'd surface, haply sprung
From line of Jubal, whose ingenious race
Taught erst the harp and organ. Thence it came,
Like great Atrides' sceptre, handed down
From Vulcan's smithy: to his chatterbox,
The pert and nimble-finger'd Argicide,
Jove gave it, he to Pelops, and so on.
So when his Grace a thread-bare coat discards,
He gives it to his valet, he to Tom,
And Tom to Dick; then swings it for a while
Under a penthouse-shade in Monmouth-street.
It travels once again from back to back
Of prentice, poet, pedlar, till at length,
Quite out at elbows, and of buttons stript,
Powder'd and greasy, to some beggar's brat
It falls, a golden prize. Such the descent
Alcanor's instrument may boast; but he
More for its present use the thing esteems,
Than could its ancient pedigree be trac'd
E'en to the days of old Cadwallader.
What boots it, O ye titled great, to shew
The noble ancestor of regal line,
Whose valour bound an enemy in chains,
Or patriotic wisdom sav'd a state,
To be allied to men of worth and wit,
The glory of the world, if in yourselves
No spark of virtue live? Who can esteem
The man, who all his dignity derives
From honours not his own? Give me the steed
Whose noble efforts bore the prize away;
I care not for his grandsire or his dam:
Be thine the nag of admirable port,
Which, spare and sinewless, still lags behind;
I ask him not, though sprung of Galathy,
Bucephalus, or Pegase. Yet I grant,
Where goodness is to greatness near allied,
And blood and virtue for one empire strive,
The man who has them is a man indeed.
Nor, trust me, is the world so worthless grown,
But such there are, and such my soul esteems.

That ample case, which underneath the frame
Of harpsichord so smooth, in shape uncouth
Reposes, from the morning broom defends
A viol-bass, else long ago destroy'd
By the rude blows of slattern Lalage.
For she, a subtle wit, can plainly see
No worth in that whose worth is far remov'd
Beyond her sight and reach: so, critic-like,
She sweeps away her cobweb with a frisk,
And crushes many a pearl.

That smaller case
A violin protects, still sound and safe,
Though tumbled ringing oft upon the floor
With proud disdain, and ruin musical.

Such is Alcanor's houshold, such his state,
Save what might yet be sung in higher strains,
Of broom, and stool, of table, chair, and grate,
The furniture of parlour, kitchen bare,
And cellar ill-bestow'd; imperial themes,
And worthy meditation infinite.
Save too the tedious invent'ry above,
Of blanket, bed, and reverend bureau:
Besides what ornaments the nest sublime
Of heav'n-aspiring Lalage. A maid
Is she, who sleeps in the moon's neighbourhood,
And often hears the golden show'r descend
Upon the tiles above, nor dreads assault
From maid-deceiving Jove. Too wise were he
To seek Calisto under Dian's nose.
Let the fair silver-shafted Queen depart,
And Jove may come to woo her in the dark;
She too has beauty that demands a veil,
Hide, hide her from him or she wins him not.

Methinks Displeasure clouds the critic's brow,
And Scorn her arrow dips, profoundly perch'd
On his protruded lip. “Is this the man,
“The Poet sings, who, stranger to the world,
“Suffers the speedy wick of life to burn
“E'en to the socket; and, the duty done
“One church affords, the rest of life resigns
“To selfish ease? Are these the nobler sweets
“Of life domestic? Was it but for this
“Alcanor fled the public walks of life,
“And bless'd the serious cause that set him free
“From Alma-mater's chain? Nobler it were
“To mingle with the busy world, and be
“The like of others, than sit here, supine
“And sedulous, to please himself alone.
“I grant him innocent and free from blame,
“But hate the bliss which centres in itself.
“Give me the man who cannot taste a joy
“Which none partakes.” A truce, impatient Sir,
For such Alcanor is. Not for himself
He sought the lonely cell remote, and stor'd
His humble mansion with resources sweet
Of intellectual bliss. To other eyes
And other ears the letter'd page unfolds
Ambrosial food, the honey of research.
'Tis not to please Alcanor's self alone,
Or heedless Lalage, so oft is heard
The melting sound of sweet-ton'd harmony.
In chambers yet unsung three fairies dwell,
Each to Alcanor bound, and near in blood,
But nearer in affection. Julia she,
Who holds the rein of houshold management,
And moderates with skill the lavish hand
Of hasty Lalage. Eliza next,
Of aspect mild, and ever-blooming cheek;
Good humour there, and innocence, and health
Perennial roses shed. It is a May
Which never drops its blush, but still the same
Appears in Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring;
Save when it glows with a superior tinge,
Kiss'd by the morning breeze, or lighted up
At sound of commendation well-bestow'd,
Under the down-cast eye of modest worth,
Which shrinks at its own praise. Unwary Belles,
Who day by day the fashionable round
Of dissipation tread, stealing from art
The blush Eliza owns, to hide a cheek
Pale and deserted, come, and learn of me
How to be ever-blooming, young, and fair.
Give to the mind improvement. Let the tongue
Be subject to the heart and head. Withdraw
From city smoke, and trip with agile foot,
Oft as the day begins, the steepy down
Or velvet lawn, earning the bread you eat.
Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed:
The breath of night's destructive to the hue
Of ev'ry flow'r that blows. Go to the field,
And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps
Soon as the sun departs? Why close the eyes
Of blossoms infinite, long ere the moon
Her oriental veil puts off? Think why,
Nor let the sweetest blossom nature boasts
Be thus expos'd to night's unkindly damp.
Well may it droop, and all its freshness lose,
Compell'd to taste the rank and pois'nous steam
Of midnight theatre, and morning ball.
Give to repose the solemn hour she claims,
And from the forehead of the morning steal
The sweet occasion. O there is a charm
Which morning has, that gives the brow of age
A smack of youth, and makes the lip of youth
Shed perfumes exquisite. Expect it not,
Ye who till noon upon a down-bed lie,
Indulging fev'rous sleep, or wakeful dream
Of happiness no mortal heart has felt
But in the regions of romance. Ye fair,
Like you it must be woo'd, or never won:
And, being lost, it is in vain ye ask
For milk of roses and Olympian dew.
Cosmetic art no tincture can afford
The faded feature to restore: no chain,
Be it of gold, and strong as adamant,
Can fetter beauty to the fair one's will.

But leave we not the gentle Isabel
Unsung, though nature on her cheek no rose
Has planted, and the lily blossom there
Without a rival. Look within, and learn
That on the mind internal she bestows
What she denies the face. Yes, she is kind,
And gives to ev'ry man his proper gift,
To make him needful to his native soil.
There is not inequality so strange
'Twixt man and man, as haughty wits suppose.
The beggar treads upon the monarch's heel
For excellence, and often wears a heart
Of noble temper, under filth and rags:
While he that reigns, in spite of outward pomp,
Is mean and beggarly within, and far outweigh'd
By the offensive lazar at his gate.
Th' unletter'd fool, who daily steers the plough
With vacant head, and heart as unimprov'd
As the dull brute he drives, gives to the world
A necessary good, which all thy pains,
Ingenious Critic, or thy deep research,
Profound Philosopher, thy preaching, Clerk,
Thy prattle, Lawyer, or thy grave demurs,
Costly Physician, hardly shall exceed.
The kingly tulip captivates the eye,
But smelt we loath; while the sweet violet,
Which little beauty boasts, hid from the sight,
With such a fragrant perfume hits the sense,
As makes us love ere we behold. And thus
The gaudy peacock of the feather'd race
The noblest seems, till the sweet note be heard
Which nightly cheers the musing poet's ear
Under the thorny brake; and then we grant,
That little Philomel, though unadorn'd,
Needs not the aid of plumes. So, Isabel,
Internal worth upon thy cheek bestows
A rose's beauty, though no rose be there.
A heart which almost breaks to be rebuk'd,
A mind inform'd, yet fearful to be seen,
Kept by a tongue which never but at home,
And cautious then, its golden trust betrays.
These are thy charms, and they are charms for me,
And in my eye as sweet a grace bestow,
As matchless Beauty, trick'd in airy smiles
And suit of fantasy, what time she trips
With foot inaudible the sprightly round
Of fairy dance, outshining ev'ry star
And planet of the night. And these shall last,
As morning fair and fresh as amaranth,
When all thy triumphs, Beauty, are no more.

Here let us pause. For learned jockeys say,
'Tis good to give one's steed a morning draught:
And he that will may whet his whistle too
With cordial peppermint, or baser dram,
The journey scarce begun. Tedious the way,
Through many a dismal lane, and darksome wood,
In story famous for the murder done
On nightly traveller. And ask the sot,
Who daily drives the clattering stage, with face
Raw as the surloin, wrapt in coat of proof,
Lashing his rawbon'd steeds to distance time,
Now swearing, drinking now, now snarling jokes,
Now laughing loud, and now with surly heel
Stamping the boot—ask him, I say, if drink
Be not the soul of labour. What could he,
The frequent can denied, the smiling bowl,
And ever-and-again-returning dram?
Or ask the drunken fool, who all day long
Or drinks, or lolls upon an alehouse bench,
With pot in hand, and thirsty pipe in mouth.
Sons of Anacreon, say whence the laugh
Which shakes the very roof, at ev'ry pause
Of the loud song with Stentrophonic voice
Lustily brayed? Or you, ye gallant bloods,
Say whence your noble exploits, to beset
Fair Thais, kick the waiter, burst the lamp,
Cry fire, and bid defiance to the watch?
Join your shrill pipes, ye maids of Billingsgate,
And market dames, and make the chorus full.
“O, there is nothing noble to be done
“Till we have swallow'd pint on pint. 'Tis drink,
“And only drink, that makes the world go round.”

I praise you not; and if there be a wretch
Who thus far has perus'd my careless page,
In hope to find a palliative to vice,
Here let us part. An enemy to mirth
Who deems me, does me wrong. I hold it good
To laugh away a portion of my days,
And give to mirth her song, to sport her feather:
But he who draws his wit to stab at truth,
And is the friend of folly when he smiles,
Has liv'd too long. Ne'er be my trifling muse
Virtue's assassin, or the friend of vice.
Kind Heaven, if there be a deed so dark
Yet lodg'd in future time, be death my lot
Ere it arrive, and send me to my grave
E'en in the pride and glory of my strength.

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.

At once we rush into the midst of June,
And find Alcanor at the noon of day
Laborious in his garden. The warm sun
Is clouded, and the fluctuating breeze
Calls him from nicer labour, to attend
The vegetable progress. Mark we now
A thousand great effects which spring from toil,
Unsung before. The martial pea observe,
In column square arrang'd, line after line
Successive; the gay bean, her hindmost ranks
Stript of their blossoms; the thick-scatter'd bed
Of soporific lettuce; the green hill
Cover'd with cucumbers. All these my Muse
Disdains not. She can stray well-pleas'd, and pluck
The od'rous leaf of marj'ram, balm, or mint;
Then smile to think how near the neighbourhood
Of rue and wormwood, in her thoughtful eye
Resembling life, which ever thus brings forth
In quick succession bitter things and sweet.
Nor scorns she to observe the thriving sage,
Which well becomes the garden of a clerk;
The wholesome camomile, and fragrant thyme.
All these thy pains, Alcanor, propagate,
Support, and feed. Let the big Doctor laugh,
Who only toils to satisfy the calls
Of appetite insatiate, and retires,
Good honest soul, offended at the world,
In pure devotion, to his pipe and bowl,
And whiffs and sleeps his idle hours away.
Yes, let him laugh. A life of labour yields
Sweeter enjoyment than his gouty limbs
Have sense to feel. It gives the body health,
Agility, and strength, and makes it proof
Against the fang of pain. It stays the course
Of prodigal contagion, scares away
The scythe of time, and turns the dart of death:
And hence the mind unwonted force derives;
Recruited oft by labour, to her work
Strong as a giant she returns, and rolls
Her Sisyphæan ball with wond'rous ease
Up to the mountain's top. It is the soul
Of poesy and wit. Then follow still
The happy task, nor scorn to feel, Alcanor,
How passing grateful 'tis to reap the fruits
Of willing toil. The board of industry,
By her own labour frugally supply'd,
Gives to her food an admirable zest,
Unknown to indolence, which half asleep
With palateless indifference surveys
The smoaking feast of plenty.

I have stray'd
Wild as the mountain bee, and cull'd a sweet
From ev'ry flow'r that beautify'd my way.
Now shall my serious Muse with solemn tone
Begin her friendly lecture to the fair.

Unwedded maiden, is there yet a man
For wisdom eminent? seek him betimes.
He will not shun thee, though thy frequent foot
Wear out the pavement at his door. Ye fair,
Be sedulous to win the man of sense;
And fly the empty fool. Shame the dull boy,
Who leaves at college what he learn'd at school,
And whips his academic hours away,
Cas'd in unwrinkled buckskin and tight boots,
More studious of his hunter than his books.
O! had ye sense to see what powder'd apes
Ye oft admire, the idle boy for shame
Would lay his racket and his mace aside,
And love his tutor and his desk. Time was
When ev'ry woman was a judge of arms
And military exploit: 'twas an age
Of admirable heroes. And time was
When women dealt in Hebrew, Latin, Greek;
No dunces then, but all were deeply learn'd.
I do not wish to see the female eye
Waste all its lustre at the midnight lamp;
I do not wish to see the female cheek
Grow pale with application. Let your care
Be to preserve your beauty; that secur'd,
Improve the judgment, that the loving fair
May have an eye to know the man of worth,
And keep secure the jewel of her charms
From him who ill deserves. Let the spruce beau,
That lean, sweet-scented, and palav'rous fool,
Who talks of honour and his sword, and plucks
The man who dares advise him by the nose;
That puny thing which hardly crawls about,
Reduc'd by wine and women, yet drinks on,
And vapours loudly o'er his glass, resolv'd
To tell a tale of nothing, and outswear
The northern tempest; let that fool, I say,
Look for a wife in vain, and live despis'd.

I would that all the fair ones of this isle
Were such as one I knew. Peace to her soul,
She lives no more. And I a genius need
To paint her as she was. Most like, methinks,
That amiable maid the poet drew
With angel pencil, and baptiz'd her Portia.
Happy the man, and happy sure he was,
So wedded. Bless'd with her, he wander'd not
To seek for happiness; 'twas his at home.
How often have I chain'd my truant tongue,
To hear the music of her sober words!
How often have I wonder'd at the grace
Instruction borrow'd from her eye and cheek!
Surely that maid deserves a monarch's love,
Who bears such rich resources in herself
For her sweet progeny. A mother taught
Entails a blessing on her infant charge
Better than riches; an unfailing cruse
She leaves behind her, which the faster flows
The more 'tis drawn; where ev'ry soul may feed,
And nought diminish of the public stock.

Shew me a maid so fair in all your ranks,
Ye crowded boarding-schools. Are ye not apt
To taint the infant mind, to point the way
To fashionable folly, strew with flow'rs
The path of vice, and teach the wayward child
Extravagance and pride? Who learns in you
To be the prudent wife, or pious mother?
To be her parents' staff, or husband's joy?
'Tis you dissolve the links that once held fast
Domestic happiness. 'Tis you untie
The matrimonial knot. 'Tis you divide
The parent and his child. Yes, 'tis to you
We owe the ruin of our dearest bliss.
The best instructress for the growing lass
Is she that bare her. Let her first be taught,
And we shall see the path of virtue smooth
With often treading. She can best dispense
That frequent medicine the soul requires,
And make it grateful to the tongue of youth,
By mixture of affection. She can charm
When others fail, and leave the work undone.
She will not faint, for she instructs her own.
She will not torture, for she feels herself.
So education thrives, and the sweet maid
Improves in beauty, like the shapeless rock
Under the sculptor's chisel, till at length
She undertakes her progress through the world,
A woman fair and good, as child for parent,
Parent for child, or man for wife could wish.
Say, man, what more delights thee than the fair?
What should we not be patient to endure,
If they command? We rule the noisy world,
But they rule us. Then teach them how to guide,
And hold the rein with judgment. Their applause
May once again restore the quiet reign
Of virtue, love, and peace, and yet bring back
The blush of folly, and the shame of vice.

My lecture ceases—Once again observe
Alcanor in his garden; not alone,
For Isabel is there. The day declines,
And now the falling sun offends them not.
She rears the fainting flow'r, and feeds its root.
Ye botanists, I cannot talk like you,
And give to ev'ry plant its name and rank,
Taught by Linné; yet I perceive in all
Or known or unknown, in the garden rais'd,
Or nurtur'd in the hedge-row or the field,
A secret something which delights my eye,
And meliorates my heart. And much I love
To see the fair one bind the straggling pink,
Cheer the sweet rose, the lupin, and the stock,
And lend a staff to the still gadding pea.
I cannot count the number of the stars,
Nor call them by their names, much less relate
What vegetable tribes Alcanor loves,
The fair ones rear. I will not swell my song,
Like you, ye bards of Epopϕan fame,
With the proud list of forces led from Greece,
Or angels tumbled headlong into hell.
Yet let me praise the garden-loving maid,
Who innocently thus concludes the day.
Ye fair, it well becomes you. Better thus
Cheat time away, than at the crowded rout,
Rustling in silk, in a small room close-pent,
And heated e'en to fusion; made to breathe
Fetid, contagious air, and fret at whist,
Or sit aside to sneer and whisper scandal.

In such a silent, cool, and wholesome hour,
The Author of the world from heaven came
To walk in Paradise, well pleas'd to mark
The harmless deeds of new-created man.
And sure the silent, cool, and wholesome hour
May still delight him, our atonement made.
Who knows but as we walk he walks unseen,
And sees, and well approves the cheerful task
The fair one loves. He breathes upon the pink,
And gives it odour; touches the sweet rose,
And makes it glow; beckons the evening dew,
And sheds it on the lupin and the pea:
Then smiles on her, and beautifies her cheek
With gay good humour, happiness, and health.
So all are passing sweet, and the young Eve
Feels all her pains rewarded, all her joys
Perfect and unimpair'd. But who can love,
Of heav'nly temper, to frequent your walks,
Ye fashion-loving belles? The human soul
Your pestilent amusements hates; how then
Shall he approve, who cannot look on guilt?

So day by day Alcanor and the fair
Attend the garden studious, soon as eve
Her cooling odours sheds, and the large sun
Grows dim, and shoots his mellow rays oblique.

Nor these the only pleasures summer yields.
They often wander at the close of day
Along the shady lane, or through the wood,
To pluck the ruddy strawberry, or smell
The perfum'd breeze that all the fragrance steals
Of honeysuckle, blossom'd beans, or clover;
Or haply rifles from the new-made rick
The hay's sweet odour, or the sweeter breath
Of farmer's yard, where the still patient cow
Stands o'er the plenteous milk-pail ruminant.
Sometimes they stray at highest noon, when day
His garish eye has veil'd, and idly range
The new-mown pasture, mark the distant forge
Deep in the valley, jutting its low roof
Against the stream, close by the trickling sluice,
And thither turn their steps. I love to see
How hardly some their frugal morsel earn;
It gives my own a zest, and serves to damp
The longing appetite of discontent.

See, pale and hollow-eyed, in his blue shirt,
Before the scorching furnace, reeking stands
The weary smith. A thund'ring water-wheel
Alternately uplifts his cumbrous pair
Of roaring bellows. He torments the coal,
And stirs the melting ore, till all resolv'd;
Then with vast forceps seizes the bright mass,
And drags it glowing to the anvil. Eye
Can scarce attend it, so intense the heat.
He bears it all, and with one arm lets free
Th' impatient stream. The heavy wheel uplifts
Slowly, and suddenly lets fall, the loud
And awful hammer, that confounds the ear,
And makes the firm earth tremble. He the block
Shapes, to the blow obsequious; cooler grown,
He stays his floodgate, once again provokes
The dying cinder, and his half-done work
Buries in fire. Again he plucks it forth,
And once more lifts it to the sturdy anvil.
There beaten long, and often turn'd, at length
'Tis done. He bears it hissing to the light,
An iron bar. Behold it well. What is't,
But a just emblem of the lot of virtue?
For in this naughty world she cannot live,
Nor rust contract, nor mingle with alloy.
So the great Judge, to make her worthy heav'n,
Submits her to the furnace and the anvil;
Till molten, bruis'd, and batter'd, she becomes
Spotless and pure, and leaves her dross behind.

Who can repine and think his lot severe,
Who well considers this? The slaving smith,
That wipes his flowing brow so fast, his bread
Earns at the bitter cost, expence of health.
In summer's hottest day he feeds his forge,
And stands expos'd to the distressful fire,
That almost broils him dead. Yet what complaint
Makes he at fortune? He is well content
To toil at his infernal work, and breathe
A torrid atmosphere, to earn at best
Scanty subsistence in this pinching world.
Ye idle rich, consider this, nor aim
At places, pensions, titles, coronets.
Ye lazy clerks, consider this, nor sue
For benefices, canonries, and mitres.
All might inherit ease, would they not long
To fill a braver office, and at times
Look down, and see how hard the drudging poor
Toils for a bare subsistence. Be content,
And happiness shall turn and follow you.
But she is coy as the unwedded maid,
And he that follows her is vex'd in vain,
And may pursue for ever. Let her fly;
Shy fool, I follow not. If thou relent,
Feast at my board, and be a welcome guest.

So summer glides along, and happy he
Who, like Alcanor, holds occasion fast,
And, duty done, enjoys the summer lounge.

So have I wander'd ere those days were past
Which childhood calls her own. Ah! happy days,
Days recollection loves, unstain'd with vice,
Why were ye gone so soon? Did I not joy
To quit my desk, and ramble in the field,
To gather austere berries from the bush,
Or search the coppice for the clust'ring nut?
Did I not always with a shout applaud
The voice that welcome holiday announc'd?
Say, you that knew me, you that saw me oft
Shut up my book elate, and dance with glee.
O liberty! how passing sweet art thou
To him who labours at the constant oar
Sorely reluctant, to the pining boy
Who loves enlargement, and abhors his chain.

So on thy banks too, Isis, have I stray'd,
A tassel'd student. Witness you who shar'd
My morning walk, my ramble at high noon,
My evening voyage, an unskilful sail,
To Godstow bound, or some inferior port,
For strawberries and cream. What have we found
In life's austerer hours, delectable
As the long day so loiter'd? Ye profound
And serious heads, who guard the twin retreats
Of British learning, give the studious boy
His due indulgence. Let him range the field,
Frequent the public walk, and freely pull
The yielding oar. But mark the truant well,
And if he turn aside to vice or folly,
Shew him the rod, and let him feel you prize
The parent's happiness, the public good.
And you, ye thoughtless young, deem it not hard
If sage experience check your wild career,
And disappoint your project. Love the hand
Which steadily corrects, and be not apt
To leave the student's for the jockey's part,
To drink and gamble. Will ye thus repay
Parental goodness? Who can wonder then,
The parent's curse on Alma-mater lights,
And the wide world re-echoes with the sound
Of terrible reproach. Forbear, forbear.

Now comes July, and with his fervid noon
Unsinews labour. The swinkt mower sleeps.
The weary maid rakes feebly. The warm swain
Pitches his load reluctant. The faint steer,
Lashing his sides, draws sulkily along
The slow encumber'd wain. The hedge-row now
Delights, or the still shade of silent lane,
Or cool impending arbor, there to read,
Or talk and laugh, or meditate and sleep.

There let me sit to see the low'ring storm
Collect its dusky horrors, and advance
To bellow sternly in the ear of night;
To see th' Almighty electrician come,
Making the clouds his chariot. Who can stand
When he appears? The conscious creature flies,
And skulks away, afraid to see his God
Charge and recharge his dreadful battery.
For who so pure his lightning might not blast,
And be the messenger of justice? Who
Can stand expos'd, and to his Judge exclaim,
“My heart is cleansed, turn thy storm away?”
Fear not, ye fair, who with the naughty world
Have seldom mingled. Mark the rolling storm,
And let me hear you tell, when morning comes,
With what tremendous howl the furious blast
Blew the large show'r in heavy cataract
Against your window; how the keen, the quick,
And vivid lightning quiver'd on your bed,
And how the deep artillery of heav'n
Broke loose, and shook your coward habitation.
Fear not; for if a life of innocence,
And that which we deem virtue here below,
Can hold the forky bolt, ye may presume
To look and live. Yet be not bold, but shew
Some pious dread, some grave astonishment.
For all our worthy deeds are nothing worth;
And if the solemn tempest cut us short
In our best hour, we are in debt to heav'n.

The storm subsided, and the day begun,
Who would not walk along the sandy way,
To smell the shower's fragrance, see the sun
With his sheer eye ascend the zenith joyous,
Mark the still-rumbling cloud crowding away
Indignant, and embrace the gentle breeze,
That idly wantons with the dewy leaf,
And shakes the pearly rain-drop to the ground?
How sweet the incense of reviving flow'rs!
Ye must abroad, ye fair. The angry night
Has done you mischief. Ev'ry plant will need
Your kindly hand to rear its falling head.

Come not St. Swithin with a cloudy face,
Ill-ominous; for old tradition says,
If Swithin weep, a deluge will ensue,
A forty days of rain. The swain believes,
And blesses sultry Swithin if he smiles,
But curses if he frowns. So boding dames
Teach the fray'd boy a thousand ugly signs,
Which riper judgment cannot shake aside:
And so the path of life is rough indeed,
And the poor fool feels double smart, compell'd
To trudge it barefoot on the naked flint.
For what is judgment and the mind inform'd,
Your Christian armour, Gospel-preparation,
But sandals for the feet, that tread with ease,
Nor feel those harsh asperities of life,
Which ignorance and superstition dread?
I much admire we ever should complain
That life is sharp and painful, when ourselves
Create the better half of all our woe.
Whom can he blame who shudders at the sight
Of his own candle, and foretells with grief
A winding sheet? who starts at the red coal
Which bounces from his fire, and picks it up,
His hair on end, a coffin? spills his salt,
And dreads disaster? dreams of pleasant fields,
And smells a corpse? and ever shuns with care
The unpropitious hour to pare his nails?
Such fears but ill become a soul that thinks.
Let time bring forth what heavy plagues it will.
Who pain anticipates, that pain feels twice,
And often feels in vain. Yet, though I blame
The man who with too busy eye unfolds
The page of time, and reads his lot amiss,
I can applaud to see the smiling maid
With pretty superstition pluck a rose,
And lay it by till Christmas. I can look
With much complacency on all her arts
To know the future husband. Yes, ye fair,
I deem it good to take from years to come
A loan of happiness. We could not live,
Did we not hope to-morrow would produce
A better lot than we enjoy to-day.
Hope is the dearest med'cine of the soul,
A sweet oblivious antidote, which heals
The better half of all the pains of life.

Now o'er his corn the sturdy farmer looks,
And swells with satisfaction to behold
The plenteous harvest which repays his toil.
We too are gratified, and feel a joy
Inferior but to his, partakers all
Of the rich bounty Providence has strew'd
In plentiful profusion o'er the field.
Tell me ye fair, Alcanor tell me, what
Is to the eye more cheerful, to the heart
More satisfactive, than to look abroad,
And from the window see the reaper strip,
Look round, and put his sickle to the wheat?
Or hear the early mower whet his scythe,
And see where he has cut his sounding way,
E'en to the utmost edge of the brown field
Of oats or barley? What delights us more,
Than studiously to trace the vast effects
Of unabated labour? to observe
How soon the golden field abounds with sheaves?
How soon the oat and bearded barley fall,
In frequent lines, before the keen-edg'd scythe?
The clatt'ring team then comes, the swarthy hind
Down leaps, and doffs his frock alert, and plies
The shining fork. Down to the stubble's edge
The easy wain descends half built, then turns,
And labours up again. From pile to pile
With rustling step the swain proceeds, and still
Bears to the groaning load the well-poiz'd sheaf.
The gleaner follows, and with studious eye
And bended shoulders traverses the field
To cull the scatter'd ear, the perquisite
By heaven's decree assign'd to them who need,
And neither sow nor reap. Ye who have sown,
And reap so plenteously, and find the grange
Too narrow to contain the harvest given,
Be not severe, and grudge the needy poor
So small a portion. Scatter many an ear,
Nor let it grieve you to forget a sheaf,
And overlook the loss. For he who gave
Will bounteously reward the purpos'd wrong
Done to yourselves; nay more, will twice repay
The generous neglect. The field is clear'd;
No sheaf remains; and now the empty wain
A load less honourable waits. Vast toil succeeds,
And still the team retreats, and still returns
To be again full-fraught. Proceed, ye swains,
And make one autumn of your lives, your toil
Still new, your harvest never done. Proceed,
And stay the progress of the falling year,
And let the cheerful valley laugh and sing,
Crown'd with perpetual August. Never faint,
Nor ever let us hear the hearty shout
Sent up to heaven, your annual work complete,
And harvest ended. It may seem to you
The sound of joy, but not of joy to us.
We grieve to think how soon your efforts cease,
How soon the plenteous year resigns her fruits,
And waits the mute approach of surly Winter.

One labour more the cheerful hand awaits;
Then the glad year is done. We seize with joy
The precious interval, and shape our walk
At early evening down the meadow path;
Till sunk into the vale, fast by the brook
We spy the blooming hop, and with light heart
The glorious garden enter. Tell me not,
Ye who, in love with wealth, your days consume
Pent up in city stench, and smoke, and filth:
O tell me not of aught magnificent
Or fair as this, in all your public walks.
What are the charms your Ranelagh affords
Compar'd with ours? Search all your gardens round,
Ye shall not find e'en at your boasted Vaux
A haunt so neat, so elegant as this.
Long let us stray, and frequently repeat
Our ev'ning's homage to the blooming hop.
Spare him, ye swains, pernicious insects spare,
Ye howling tempests, come not near his branch,
But let him hang till I have gaz'd my fill.
Then shall he fall, and his gay honours shed,
And your forbearance plenteously repay
With his abundant gold. Long let us stray,
Enjoy the grateful covert, and admire
The one continu'd cluster over-head
Of blossoms interwoven, and depending
E'en to the touch and smell. Long let us stray,
And ever as we come to the shorn mead,
And quit the garden with reluctance, then,
When we behold the smiling valley spread
In gay luxuriance far before us, sheep
And oxen grazing, till the eye is staid,
The sinuous prospect turning from the view,
And all above us to the left and right
Enchanting woodland to the topmost hill—
Then let the village bells, as often wont,
Come swelling on the breeze, and to the sun,
Half-set, sing merrily their ev'ning song.
I ask not for the cause—it matters not.
It is enough for me to hear the sound
Of the remote exhilarating peal,
Now dying all away, now faintly heard,
And now with loud and musical relapse
Its mellow changes huddling on the ear.
So have I stood at eve on Isis' banks,
To hear the merry Christ-Church bells rejoice.
So have I sat too in thy honour'd shades,
Distinguish'd Magdalen, on Cherwell's brink,
To hear thy silver Wolsey tones so sweet.
And so too have I paus'd and held my oar,
And suffer'd the slow stream to bear me home,
While Wykeham's peal along the meadow ran.

Now let September and October come,
Twin months of slaughter. Persecution starts,
And ere the dewy day be half awake
Begins her bloody work. The fields are throng'd
With licens'd murderers, who slay for sport.
So when the jealous Herod gave the word,
The cruel ruffian thirsted for the blood
Of helpless innocents. And so the sword,
Another Herod reigning, was let loose
To spill the blood of sleeping Huguenots.
Alcanor joins them not. He envies none
The pleasures of the field, and much admires
To hear the squabble and the loud harangue,
And all for game; to see the British soul
So puny grown, it quarrels for a feather.
'Tis a mean wretch, and scarce deserves to live,
Who cannot find amusements void of pain.

O undeserving parent, who neglects
To train the infant boy to deeds humane.
See how his sports, his pastimes, dearest child,
Are all to be indulg'd, whether he choose
To whip his nurse, to lash the sleeping puppy,
Or pinch the tail of unoffending puss.
Go, catch the surly beetle, and suspend
The harmless pris'ner by the wing or tail,
To make the booby laugh. But if so loud
His well-deserv'd rebuke, the timid child
Stands off alarm'd, then let him see thee crush
The thing he fears. Or give it liberty,
Not unconstrain'd, as heav'n bestow'd it. No,
Set the gall'd pris'ner free, but lock his chain
Full-fast about him. Bid him to the field,
But pluck no arrow from his side. He's gone,
And feels that liberty is wondrous sweet,
Though the crook'd pin fast fix'd, and trailing thread,
Admit no remedy. A while he lives—
His thread clings fast—he famishes, and dies.
Go, Tom, a ladder bring, and reach the nest,
'Tis but a chirping sparrow's, and 'twill serve
To pacify the boy. What if the dam
In patient expectation sit, and hope
Another day shall all her cares reward,
And bring to light her helpless progeny?
Forth from her high maternal office dragg'd
With rude indignity, behold she comes
A joyful victim to the callous boy.
He with delight her ruffled plumes surveys,
Seizes her nest, and the dear charge purloins;
Then with a frantic laugh down drops the eggs,
And blindfold hops to crush them as he goes.
Ah! hapless bird, yet happy still, if this
Be all the pain thy cruel foe intends.
Nothing avail'd thy labour of an age
To weave the genial nest, with many a root
And many a straw far-fetch'd? 'Twas all in vain.
Half-starv'd Grimalkin claims thee for his prey,
And in his cruel paw fast-clutch'd devours
Relentless. Or the boy aware, himself
Cuts short existence, and allots to puss
Only the sever'd head. Hard-hearted lout,
Steel'd executioner, behold the blood
Of parent and of offspring. Burn with shame;
For thou hast done a deed which Heav'n abhors.
Let the wise parent laugh, to see how well
His looby boy has learn'd to be humane.
Let him applaud the bloody deed, and spare
The well-earn'd rod. In thee, great state,
Eternal glory of the Gentile world,
Just Athens, had the beardless youth perfum'd
A deed so villainous, the public arm
Had the mean wretch chastis'd, till it had wak'd
A soul humane and sensible of wrong.
Behold and mark the sturdy fool, at length
Grown up to man, (if such he may be deem'd,
Possessing nothing human but the shape,)
What are his sports? and how delights the dunce
From morn to night to spend the live-long day?
“Can the swarth Ethiopian change his skin?”
Or can the leopard at his will be white,
And lay his spots aside? From morn to eve
See how he toils with generous intent
To be the murd'rer of the tim'rous hare,
To win the brush of Reynard nobly skill'd,
To vex the badger; or with cruel joy
Stoops o'er the cock-pit, eager to behold
The dying struggles of poor Chanticleer.
'Twas nature taught the gen'rous bird to fight,
And drive the bold intruder from his roost,
In care for thee, mean wretch, who hast supply'd
The weapon nature kindly had refus'd,
Or made to strike in vain. Now mark his gait,
When morning hardly dawns, and from the hutch
He lets the full-ear'd pointer loose to range.
Well arm'd is he, within with morning dram,
Without with old surtout, thick shoes, and hose
Of leather, button'd to the buckskin'd knee.
So forth he fares, brave knight; but first he primes
And crams his musket, then suspends his pouch,
His powder-horn, and whip with whistle tipt,
On his broad shoulders. Let me not forget,
What he might well forget, th' important bag,
To be ere long (for so he thinks) well lin'd
With pheasant, partridge, snipe, or tardy quail.
So mounts the popping Hudibras or stile
Or crackling hedge, or leaps the muddy ditch,
His armour clatt'ring as he goes. I see
Where he has swept the silver dew away
Across the pasture. Now he climbs the gate,
And heys his dog to run the stubble round,
While he stands still, or scarcely moves a pace.
So have I seen the hasty minute-hand
Run round and round, while th' other idly stood,
Or seem'd to stand, and with commanding tone
Bray'd loud to instigate his race again.
Take heed, take heed. With nose infallible
The silent pointer winds toward the game.
Now motionless he stands, one foot lift up,
His nostril wide distended, and his tail
Unwagg'd. Now speed, thou hero of the gun,
And when the sudden covey springs, let fly
And miss them all. O I rejoice to see
When our amusements are so innocent
They give no pain at all. But spare the whip,
And if the wary covey spring too soon,
Let Sancho still be safe; and let not rage
Prompt thee to stamp upon his guiltless neck
Till the blood issue from his lips and nose:
Much less let fly upon the faithful cur
The volley fate has spar'd, for he is staunch,
And true to thee as thou art false to him.

O thoughtless world, that will not be at pains
To cultivate humanity in youth.
'Tis hence we laugh at woe, and ev'ry day
Unpitying hear the cries of half a world
Vex'd with the galling scourge of slavery.
My eye is cast on Britain's western isles,
And I behold a patient slave grown faint
Under the lash. Inhuman dog, forbear:
The man who now lies bleeding at thy feet
Was once a monarch. To the bloody field
He led a num'rous tribe, attach'd by deeds
Of pure affection to their leader. He
No laws of mutiny had fram'd, nor fear'd
To see desertion thin his peopled ranks.
Bravely he fought, and hardly would submit,
Surviving only he. Then first he knew
What 'twas to faint, when looking for his friends
He saw them dead and bleeding at his side.
Nor had he then let fall his well-strung bow,
And shook the poison'd quiver from his side,
Were there one arrow left, or still surviv'd
He for whose life and happiness he fought,
His only son. Him reeking in his blood
The hapless monarch saw, and could no more.
Then spare him yet. What if he left his task,
And sought the friendly shade to vent his grief
Yet recent. True, he slept, and at an hour
When industry was busy. 'Twas the call
Of sympathizing nature, that would pour
One balm at least upon his countless wounds.
Poor soul, he slept, and fancy to his mind
Restor'd again the days he once had seen.
Forth from his hut he went, his only son
And wife (now more than widow) by his side.
He tipt his arrow, strung his bow, and shot.
The stricken bird was her's, and her's the deer.
Laden with these, his choicest gifts, he sought
His humble palace once again; there sat
And ate his plain and temperate repast,
And the too-fleeting hours beguil'd with talk
Of twenty thousand dangerous escapes
From cruel tiger, or more cruel man.
And was this little happiness too much?
The sword of justice surely will unsheath,
Nor fall in vain upon these guilty isles.
Cross not again the proud Atlantic wave,
With hellish purpose to enslave the free,
Or load the pris'ner with eternal chains,
For he is Man as thou art. Not for thee,
And only thee, did God's creative Word
Call into being this vast work, the world.
Nor yet for thee that Word incarnate shed
His precious blood. Go, cruel tyrant, go,
Reign in the forests of thy native isle,
And let the prowling savage reign in his.
Let him enjoy the little bliss he owns,
Or give him more. Make not his little less,
For Adam was his sire, and Adam thine;
And he shall share redemption too with thee,
With thee, and me, and all this Gentile world,
If we deserve to rank in brotherhood
With one we wrong so much. Content were he
To tread the burning desert, feel the sun
Dart his fierce rays direct upon his head,
And earn the little plenty his wild state
Affords, with hunter's toil. Content were he
To be an humble pensioner at best
Of the grim lion; but the cursed hand
Of brutal avarice that peace destroys,
That little peace which the brave lion spares.

September half elaps'd, the day returns,
Remember'd oft with awful reverence
And pious love of thee, All-seeing Power,
Who follow'st virtue wheresoe'er she roves,
Her shield and buckler. On the sunny down
Eliza stray'd. Ah! why alone? 'Twas so
The tempter vanquish'd Eve; 'twas so she fell.
She stray'd and mus'd, she pluck'd a flow'r and sung.
She knew no fear, accustom'd oft to range
The pleasant hill, and deeming none less good,
Less honest than herself. But such the world,
We cannot find the place, howe'er remote
From public notice, which escapes the search
Of prying lust. A fierce Hibernian whelp,
Strong as the tiger, subtle as the fox,
Saw and was pleas'd. No bar to him his vow
Made at the altar, to be constant still
To her he wedded there. In his false heart
He fed adult'rous hope, he couch'd and slunk,
And with a leer the solitary down
Survey'd, far as the jealous eye can reach.
So Satan lurk'd, and joy'd to find alone
Ingenious Eve; and he his proem tun'd
With flattery and lies, and so didst thou.
Into the heart of Eve his words made way:
Eliza heard not thine. For she had mark'd
And knew her tempter; she had well observ'd,
Unknown to thee, thy often-practis'd wiles.
What wonder then thy eulogy was vain?
Thy large account of honour and of wealth
Mov'd only her derision, nor could win
One smile, one kiss, one look of approbation.
Here had thy passion ceas'd, thou might'st at least
Have challeng'd honour with the fiend of Hell.
But foil'd, and still repuls'd, thy hungry soul
Had baser means to dare. Her reason proof,
Thy next resource unmanly violence.
What guilty marks left not thy greedy hand
Upon the fair one's arm? so mighty thou
To combat virtue, to assail a maid
No match for thee but in so good a cause.
Yet hadst thou vanquish'd, but a pow'r unseen
Approv'd her efforts, and resisted thine.
What saw'st thou, coward, to be put to flight
Swift as the hostile arrow? Mark my words.
The man of noble purpose nothing daunts,
No, not a falling world. He were compos'd
And stedfast as a rock, though floods of fire
The world and all its fellows swept away,
And he beheld a universe in flames.
Then was the mighty foil'd, the cunning caught:
And yet he blushes not. Accus'd, he starts,
Protests his innocence, appeals to justice,
Unlocks the copious fountain of his eye,
And who can say it is not strange and piteous?
Yet why decays his honour, spite of tears,
Of protestations and appeals, of threats,
And public insolence? Ah me! I fear
Eliza may forgive thee, but in vain;
And though insulted Justice slumber here,
She will arraign thee at the bar of Heaven,
And, spite of Charity, the wrong repay.

Now comes the happy morning long desir'd
By rural lads and lasses. Light appears.
The swain is ready in his Sunday frock,
And calls on Nell to trip it to the fair.
The village bells are up, and jangling loud
Proclaim the holiday. The clam'rous drum
Calls to the puppet-show. The groaning horn
And twanging trumpet speak the sale begun,
Of articles most rare and cheap. Dogs bark,
Boys shout, and the grave Doctor mounts sublime
His crowded scaffold, struts, and makes a speech,
Maintains the virtue of his salve for corns,
His worm-cake and his pills, puffs his known art,
And shews his kettle, silver knives and forks,
Ladle and cream-pot, and, to crown the bait,
The splendid tankard. Andrew grins, and courts
The gaping multitude, till Tom and Sue
And Abigail and Ned their shoulders shrug.
And laugh and whisper, and resolve to sport
The solitary shilling. Simple swains
And silly maids, you laugh, but Andrew wins:
And what for you but sorrow and remorse,
Or box of salve to plaister disappointment?
Unless the smart of folly may be sooth'd
By Andrew's cheerful pranks, the dancing girl,
And frolic tumbler. Now the street is fill'd
With stalls and booths for gingerbread and beer,
Rear'd by enchantment, finish'd in a trice.
Amusements here for children old and young;
For little master's pence, a coach, a drum,
A horse, a wife, a trumpet; dolls for miss,
Fans, cups and saucers, kettles, maids and churns.
For idle school-boys Punchinello rants,
The juggler shuffles, and the artful dame
Extends her lucky-bag. For infants tall,
Of twenty years and upwards, rueful games,
To whirl the horse-shoe, bowl at the nine pins,
Game at the dial-plate, drink beer and gin,
Vapour and swear, cudgel, get drunk and fight.
Then comes the ass-race. Let not wisdom frown,
If the grave clerk look on, and now and then
Bestow a smile; for we may see, Alcanor,
In this untoward race the ways of life.
Are we not asses all? We start and run,
And eagerly we press to pass the goal,
And all to win a bauble, a lac'd hat.
Was not great Wolsey such? He ran the race,
And won the hat. What ranting politician,
What prating lawyer, what ambitious clerk,
But is an ass that gallops for a hat?
For what do Princes strive, but golden hats?
For diadems, whose bare and scanty brims
Will hardly keep the sun-beam from their eyes.
For what do Poets strive? a leafy hat,
Without or crown or brim, which hardly screens
The empty noddle from the fist of scorn,
Much less repels the critic's thund'ring arm.
And here and there intoxication too
Concludes the race. Who wins the hat, gets drunk.
Who wins a laurel, mitre, cap, or crown,
Is drunk as he. So Alexander fell,
So Haman, Cæsar, Spenser, Wolsey, James.

Now chilly ev'ning, in her grey coat clad,
Advances from the east, and puts to flight
The rear of day, girt with a zone of stars.
The busy fair is ended. The rank booth
Expels its beastly habitant the mob,
And Andrew's laughable conceit is hush'd.
Home reels the drunken clown, or stays to fight,
Nothing the cause, yet honour much concern'd.
Confusion reigns, uproar and loud misrule;
Distinctions cease, and still the oath, the scream,
The shout, the hoot, disturb the midnight ear
Of sober Cloe gone to bed betimes.

Ah me! the golden year is fled. Behold
Gloomy and sad November, with a brow
Severe and clouded. Scarce a leaf sustains
His pestilential blast. The woods are stript,
And all their honours scatter'd in the vale.
Th' ambassador of surly Winter he,
And in his hand he bears the nipping frost.
Before his tyrant lord he scatters sleet,
And with a hideous frown bids Autumn speed,
And after her runs howling through the land.
The field has lost its verdure. All the pride
Of the sweet garden fades. Where now the rose,
The lupin, after, balsam, or carnation?
Or where the lily with her snowy bells?
Where the gay jasmin, odorous syringa,
Graceful laburnum, or bloom-clad arbute?
Or if we stray, where now the summer's walk
So still and peaceable at early eve,
Along the shady lane, or through the wood,
To pluck the ruddy strawberry, or smell
The perfum'd breeze that all the fragrance stole
Of honey-suckle, blossom'd beans, or clover?
Where now the blush of Spring, and the long day
Beloiter'd? cheerful May, that fill'd the woods
With music, scatter'd the green vale with flow'rs,
And hung a smile of universal joy
Upon the cheek of nature? Where blooms now
The king-cup or the daisy? Where inclines
The harebell or the cowslip? Where looks gay
The vernal furze with golden baskets hung?
Where captivates the sky-blue periwinkle
Under the cottage-eaves? Where waves the leaf,
Or rings with harmony the merry vale?
Day's harbinger no song performs, no song
Or solo anthem deigns sweet Philomel.
The golden wood-pecker laughs loud no more.
The pye no longer prates; no longer scolds
The saucy jay. Who sees the goldfinch now
The feather'd groundsel pluck, or hears him sing
In bower of apple blossoms perch'd? Who sees
The chimney-haunting swallow skim the pool,
And quaintly dip, or hears his early song
Twitter'd to dawning day? All, all are hush'd.
The very bee her merry toil foregoes,
Nor seeks her nectar, to be sought in vain.
Only the solitary robin sings,
And perch'd aloft with melancholy note
Chants out the dirge of Autumn; cheerless bird,
That loves the brown and desolated scene,
And scanty fare of Winter. Let me weep
With you, ye Muses, and with you, ye fair,
Chief mourner at the grave of her we love,
Expiring nature. For ye sought with me
The sober twilight of the shelving wood,
With me forsook the glare of sultry day,
To tread the serious gloom Religion loves,
And where she smiles and wipes her dewy eye,
With Meditation walking hand in hand.
Ye too have lov'd and heartily approv'd
The winding foot-path, and its sudden curve,
And swarded wain-way like cathedral aisle—
And heard me comment on the leaf, the branch,
The arm, the girth of the paternal oak.
Ye too have lov'd the long frequented brow,
Which ever unexpectedly displays
The clear cerulean prospect of the vale.
Oft have ye stood upon the shaggy brink
Of yonder wood-clad hill, to gaze with me
Athwart the wide and far-extended view,
Which ocean skirts or blue downs indistinct.
Oft have ye look'd with transport pure as mine
Into the flow'ry dell. But ah! no more
We wander heedless; Winter's wind forbids.
The piercing cold commands us shut the door,
And rouse the cheerful hearth; for at the heels
Of dark November, comes with arrowy scourge
The tyrannous December. Joyless now
The morning sun scarce seen, and clouded eve.
No genial influence sheds noon, eclips'd.
Sad scenes ensue; brief days, and blust'ring nights,
And snows, such as the winter-loving Muse
Of Cowper paints well pleas'd, and such as mine
Views not unsatisfied. For though without
Bleak winds and pinching frosts, within is joy,
And harmony, and peace.

Say, Muse, how pass
The frozen hours of Winter, the long eve,
The gloomy morn, the cold and cheerless day,
At the lone mansion that invests the fair
And Village Curate. Genius there unfolds
Her quick impassion'd page; and Nature there
And Art their secret treasures all display.
There dance the jocund maids of Memory
In everlasting round. Heroic Song
Her swelling act proclaims, and Eloquence
Flows with her smooth and even tide along.
Transported History the same records
Of ages past and gone, and, nothing vex'd
Or wearied with her long exact account,
O'erleaps the boundaries of present time,
And, led by Prophecy, extends her tale,
Fondly perhaps, to the world's consummation.
Then Music cheers, and sympathetic sounds
Make smooth the way for serious Tragedy:
Then dialogue and high dispute, the song,
The dance, the hearty laugh, and flippant wit
Of merry Comedy. Urania then
Points to the starry firmament, or moon
Eclips'd, and holds attention mute, the while
With moving finger she describes the course
Of planetary stars, or with sweet voice
Tells whither she led up her heav'nly bard
To visit light, and draw empyreal air;
Or whither Newton, more than mortal then,
When, musing as he sat, she shook the tree,
And dropt an apple, and her studious child
Caught up to heav'n. 'Tis pleasant to remark
How early genius plumes her for the flight,
And tries her short excursions, fearful yet,
And little on her wing confiding, now
Full-fledg'd and dauntless, soaring to the clouds,
And peering in the eye of heav'n itself.
Sagacious Newton, let me muse with thee,
And wonder at thy quick and piercing eye
Cleans'd of its mortal film. Who does not wish
Like thee to penetrate the dark abode
Of clouded mystery, and in his word
And works unfold the fearful Deity?

But not at Newton only to admire,
Ye studious fair, we love, but sometimes laugh
At Brahe and Descartes; praise the strong eye
Of Galileo, and applaud the speed
Of holy Wilkins, posting like a witch
Upon a restive broom-stick to the moon.

And sometimes thee, ingenious Boyle, we hear,
Maintaining truth and sifting nature; thee
Sometimes, whose patriotic genius foil'd
Assailant Rome, and almost sav'd the state
Of falling Syracuse: then travel round
The universal globe, at ev'ry shore
Taking large draughts of story and of song.
But chiefly thee we love, majestic Britain,
Wedded to Neptune, and thy thund'ring fleets
Follow exulting to the hostile shore;
Now bear thee company to farthest Ind,
Or to the frozen pole, or round the cape
Of utmost Horn, with philosophic touch
Converting dross to gold: now disembark,
And march with Harry to the heart of France,
And beard the wordy Monarch on his throne.
And now we follow to the cannon's mouth
Tremendous Marlb'rough; or stand by, and see
The living Elliot scare his foe to death
With everlasting show'r of burning hail.
And many more we praise, and some accuse
Whose names and deeds my speedy muse sings not.

And now morality we love, and truth,
And serious argument, and grave debate;
What Mede or Newton with prophetic eye
Divine, what Hales or Tillotson advise.
Anon we smile with zealous Latimer,
Or silent Addison, then range at large
Cervantes, Sidney, Bacon, Fenelon,
And twenty thousand more choice wits and rare.

But chiefly thee, immortal Shakespear, thee
We love and honour, Nature's darling child,
And still we court thy Muse, and still applaud,
Whether the gentle Portia tread the stage
With bloody Shylock, or Vincentio wed
The virtuous Isabel. Whether thy fays
Dance to the moon, or Prospero dispatch
His sight-outrunning Ariel to the deep,
The while the generous Miranda cheers
Her fainting Ferdinand. Whether the Duke
And gloomy Jaques confer, and Rosalind
Laugh at her sighing lover in disguise;
Or smiling Perdita come tripping forth
With mint and marj'ram, rosemary and rue:
Or Viola, that never told her love,
But let concealment like a worm i' th' bud
Feed on her damask cheek. With hearty laugh
We still dismiss the still outwitted rogue,
But still pretending Falstaff. Then we trace
With terror and applause the bloody deeds
Of civil rage, and full of horror see
Thy mailed Mars upon his altar sit
Up to the ears in blood; the fatal cause
Aspiring Bolingbroke. Thence wrath ensued,
And frequent bickering, and stedfast hate.
The lie resounded, and the gauntlet fell,
And ev'ry tongue cried traitor. To the field
They rush'd insane, and ev'ry blade drank blood.
So Percy fell, and old Northumberland,
Three Dukes of Somerset three-fold renown'd,
Two Cliffords, virtuous Humphry, Suffolk, York.
So Montague and Warwick, two brave bears,
That in their chains fetter'd the kingly lion,
And made the forest tremble when they roar'd.
Then comes despotic Richard, in thy lines,
Great bard, supremely horrible, his eye
Still bent on murder, tho' his blunted sword
Is dull with use, and his destructive arm
Claims respite, wearied. Wolsey then laments
Unstable fortune, and the favour lost
Of fickle Harry, and we too lament.
Now pitied and applauded, Timon raves;
And lofty Coriolanus scorns the shout
Of popular applause, thence basely doom'd
To banishment and death. Then Brutus strikes,
And bleeding Julius, looking for his friend,
Dies by his hand. In hurly-burly then,
By ghosts and witches circled round, Macbeth
In fiery storm stalks by, with tim'rous eye
And fretful conscience, shunning the decree
Of blood for blood. Then Imogen delights,
And eagerly we trace th' eventful scene,
Till all winds up into a happy close.
Not such the fortune of afflicted Lear
And poor Cordelia, of thy injur'd wife
Jealous Othello, of the maid distraught
Ophelia, or thy bride that slept with death,
Too hasty Romeo. Yet these delight,
And in their dread catastrophe dispense
Wholesome correction to the bleeding heart.

The Poet silent, long with rapture heard,
The Shakespear of another art succeeds.
Sweet Music wakes, and with Orphéan air
Handel begins. What mortal is not rapt
To hear his tender wildly-warbled song,
Whate'er the theme, but chiefly when he sings
Messiah come, and with amazing shout
Proclaims him King of Kings, and Lord of Lords,
For ever and for ever. Hallelujah.
Great soul, O say from what immortal fount
Thou hast deriv'd such never-failing power
To win the soul, and bear it on the wings
Of purest ecstasy, beyond the reach
Of ev'ry human care. From whence thine art
To lift us from the earth, and fix us there
Where pure devotion with unsparing hand
Pours on the altar of the living God
The hallow'd incense of the grateful heart?
O mighty Handel, what seraphic power
Gave inspiration to thy sacred song?
Thyself perchance wast some supernal spirit,
Permitted to reside on earth awhile,
To teach us here what music is in heaven.
If ev'ry Angel that attends the throne
Of clouded Deity such song inspire,
Let but our mortal ears one chorus hear,
And all the world were gather'd into Heav'n.
The very Devils surely were drawn up
To listen at the golden doors of light,
And Hell left wasteful, wide, and desolate.

Corelli, sweet harmonious bird, thee too
We hear delighted, and thy mellow strains
Deem no mean recompense for the lost song
Of lark and nightingale. Thy air repeat,
And let judicious discord still commend
Triumphant harmony, till Winter's self
Be won like us, and smooth his rugged brow,
And all his hours enchanted fleet away,
Soft as his fur, and quiet as his snow.

And oft we feel the soul-subduing power
Of vocal harmony, breath'd softly forth
And gently swell'd accordant, without aid
Of quaint embellishment, save only such
As Nature dictates, and without design
Lets fall with ease in her impassion'd mood.
Then serious glee and elegy delight,
Or pious anthem, such as Croft inspires,
Or graver Purcel, or endearing Clark.
The noble harmonies of Brewer, Este,
Webbe, Baildon, Ravenscroft, we hear
With ever new delight. Brisk canzonet
Then pleases, gay duet, or Highland air
Divinely warbled, and with cadence sweet
And tender pause prolong'd by one we love,
Spontaneous and unask'd. And oft the soul
With patriotic ardour glows, and pants
For glory, honour, and immortal deeds,
Transported at the sound of martial strains
With sudden burst commenc'd, and moving slow
With solemn grandeur and majestic pomp
To an obstreperous rebounding close.

But who shall tell in simple strain like mine
The many shapes that Music, Proteus-like,
Puts on, with grateful change of subject, time,
Contrivance, mood, soothing the captive ear,
And filling the rapt soul with fare so sweet
That still it feeds and hungers. Mortal voice
Shall ill relate with what harmonious art
She fashions pleasure to the various mind.
What wonder then the sulky wheels of time
Fly glibly round, the drowsy pendulum
Foregoes his old vexatious click unheeded,
And the shrill-sounding bell proclaims apace
The brief accomplish'd hours. By Music won,
Decrepit Time forgets his annual gout,
Renews his dance, and with a noiseless foot
Hies speedily away.

I have not told,
How oft we listen to the musty song
Of ancient bards, nor think we need excuse
To honour merit in her home-spun suit.
And chiefly we esteem thy fairy song,
Immortal Spenser, in rude guise yclad.
Then the fierce knight advances o'er the plain,
Drad for his derring do and bloody deed.
And now the combat 'gins, and cruel arms
The recreant knight o'erwhelm in uncouth fray.
The castle falls, and many a maid is won,
And many a maid is lost through dire mishap.

Then comes a troop in gilded uniform,
The goodly band Johnsonian. Cowley first,
Poetic child, whose philosophic muse
Distracts, delights, torments, and captivates.
Let me attend, when, from the world retir'd,
He turn'd his restive Pegasus to graze,
And thought, and wrote, sedate and sober prose.
Comes Milton next, that like his wakeful bird
Sings darkling, sings and mourns his eye-sight lost,
And nightly wanders to the Muses' haunt,
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song; to us
Displaying nature, and the blissful scenes
Of Paradise, though not to him returns
Day, or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine.
Sweet bard, that bears us softly now, and, smooth
As that unwrinkled flood that slowly winds
By Windsor's haughty tow'rs, and visits shores
Divinely various—rushes now, and leaps,
Confounding sense, immeasurable depth,
A foaming cataract, whose thund'ring fall
Disorders hell, and utmost earth and heav'n.
Comes Butler then, incomparable wit,
And not to be reprov'd, save when his muse
Decorum overleaps, and here and there
Bolts the coarse jest, to the chaste eye and ear
Offensive; for behind the comic mask
We find the scholar and the man of sense,
The friend of virtue, and the foe of vice.
Then follows courtly Waller, and in vain
On Amoret or Saccharissa calls,
With budget full of trifles, birth-day odes,
Congratulations, songs, and compliments,
And mythologic tales. Then Denham charms,
And from his own Parnassus, Cooper's Hill,
Sings the wide prospect that extended lies
Under his proud survey. Then Sprat. And then
Roscommon fills with elegant remark,
His verse as elegant; unspotted lines
Flow from a mind unspotted as themselves.
Then Wilmot tunes his reed, and in his song
Gives early specimen of genius, rare
And prone to excellence. But ah! how vain
Poetic hopes! The prime of life is lost,
His talent wasted, and the giddy fool
Grows old in pleasure, and denies his God.
The grave in view, a holy friend his guide,
He views his conduct with remorse, repents,
Acknowledges his fault, curses the wit
Of erring man that so outwits itself,
And dies, a martyr to the pains of vice.
Then Yalden sings, and fills us with delight,
His harp so tun'd that as the morning breaks
It breathes spontaneous rapture, and again
At ev'ning close with solemn eulogy
Welcomes the reign of night. With dewy eye
But harlot tear, then Otway's muse begins,
And charms who hears her with her Syren air;
To decency, alas, no friend, to vice
No enemy. His Celia then proclaims
Enamour'd Duke, at Floriana's grave
Sweet lamentation chanting. Dorset then
Hums nobly liberal, and hums too much,
Scarce heard an hour. Chaste Montague succeeds,
Stepney less pure, and Walsh with feeble wing
Half flying, half on foot. Then comes a bard,
Worn out and penniless, and poet still
Though bent with years, and in impetuous rhyme
Pours out his unexhausted song. What muse
So flexible, so generous as thine,
Immortal Dryden. From her copious fount
Large draughts he took, and unbeseeming song
Inebriated sang. Who does not grieve,
To hear the soul and insolent rebuke
Of angry satire from a bard so rare?
To trace the lubricous and oily course
Of abject adulation, the lewd line
Of shameless vice, from page to page, and find
The judgment brib'd, the heart unprincipled,
And only loyal at th' expence of truth,
Of justice, and of virtue? Meaner strain
The dapper wit commends of sprightly Garth.
We smile to see fantastic Poetry
Shake hands with Physic, and with grave burlesque
Arrange his gallipots, and gild his pills;
Then march in dreadful armour to the field,
To screen her new ally from hostile shocks,
With pestle truncheon, Cloacinian helm,
And levell'd squirt. Then heartily we laugh
With laughter-loving King, and much applaud
That vein of mirth which, innocent and clear,
In silver neatness flows. Young Phillips then,
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme,
A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire,
Sings gravely jocund. Dismal rag applauds,
With sympathetic ardour touch'd, at sound
Of tatter'd galligaskins, college duns,
And subtle catchpole. Modest Pomfret then,
To soar aloft unable, with light wing
Above the plain scarce elevated skims,
A short and feeble flight. So have I seen
The spaniel-hunted quail with lowly wing
Shear the smooth air: and so too have I heard
That she can sweetly clamour, though compell'd
To tread the humble vale, nor ever mount
High as the ev'ning swift or morning lark.
Then blameless Hughes, in union with Pepusch,
Still to the eloquent orchestra tunes
His virtuous, unmeaning song. And now,
In tones that might attract an angel's ear,
Flows the smooth strain of righteous Addison.
Then Blackmore says an everlasting tale,
Bless'd with a callous muse. Genius in vain
Laughs at the fond attempt, for still he bawls,
And with gigantic dissonance subdues
The universal hiss. No poet—true—
But mark the man, and you shall find him good.
And what's the poet if the man be naught?
Let Buckingham reply. Genius and wit
May flourish for a day, and snatch the wreath
From awkward probity; but soon shall fade
The ready laurels of a vicious muse,
While amaranthine honours crown the brow
Of unpoetic virtue. Waller's muse
In courteous Granville lives, in Granville dies.
Who can refuse applause to tragic Rowe?
Who can withhold his honest praise from thee,
Tickel, thou friend of Addison, and virtue?
Who is not startled at the fertile wit
Of beardless Congreve? and who does not grieve
That 'twas not drawn in the defence of virtue?
How sweet the music of thy happy lines,
Poetic Prior; full of mirth thy muse,
And exquisite her jest. Ah! hear it not,
Ye sober fair, for fulsome is the tale,
And only fit for the distemper'd ear
Of jovial libertines. His graver song
Applaud unsatisfied, and ever laugh
To see him mount his furious Pegasus
Pindaric, often back'd, but back'd in vain,
And never to be tam'd by crazy wits.
'Twas an unruly and a hard-mouth'd horse,
“And slung his rider if he sat not sure,”
Dan Cowley said. Yet up sprung Mat, resolv'd.
O'er sea and land with an unbounded loose
Runs the mad steed, a Gilpin race I ween.
Hardly the muse can sit the head-strong horse.
See, now she gallops round the Belgic shore,
Now through the raging ocean ploughs her way,
To rough Ierne's camps; there sounds alarms,
In the dank marshes finds her glorious theme,
And plunges after him through Boyne's fierce flood.
Back to his Albion then, then with stiff wing
East, over Danube and Propontis' shores,
From the Mœotis to the northern sea,
To visit the young Muscovite; thence up,
Resolv'd to reach the high empyrean sphere,
And ask for William an Olympic crown.
Till, lost in trackless fields of shining day,
Unhors'd, and all revers'd, down, down she comes,
Comes rushing with uncommon ruin down.
Glorious attempt, but not unhappy fate.
'Twas lucky, Mat, thou had'st not giv'n a name
To some Icarian gulf, or shook at least
The carnal man so sore, that he had limp'd,
And lamely hobbled to the verge of life;
But, thanks to fate, thy pace is even yet,
And happily the Muse her mirthful song
In durance vile prolongs. So have I heard
The captive finch, in narrow cage confin'd,
Charm all his woe away with cheerful song,
Which might have melted e'en a heart of steel
To give him liberty. Hence, hence, away
Ye meaner wits, hide your diminish'd heads,
See genius self approaches. Homer's soul
A puny child informs. Let envy laugh
To see an urchin ugly as herself
The glory of our isle. For thee, great bard,
We twine the laurel wreath, and grant it thine
Thrice-won. Shall any mortal tongue presume
To scatter censure on thy charming page?
Hark, 'tis the din of twenty thousand curs
Who bark at excellence. Who best deserves
Must feel the scourge of infinite abuse,
For man to man is fiercer than the wolf,
More cruel than the tiger. Who can brook
The sight of aught more worthy than himself?
Invite an angel from the courts of heav'n,
Our critic eye shall spy a thousand faults
Where not a fault exists. Mistake me not,
I name not thee an angel, haughty bard,
Thy deeds were human. With an honest heart
I love the poet, but detest the man.
Thy purer lays what mortal can despise,
Thy baser song what mortal can approve,
Thou witty, dirty, patriotic Dean?
Laugh on, laugh on. With pencil exquisite
Picture the features of encourag'd vice,
And fashionable folly. Give the fair,
The peerless Stella, everlasting worth,
Deride thy narrow paper-sparing friend;
And gall the great. But why shall thy sweet Muse
Turn scavenger, and the foul kennel rake
For themes and similes? What heart but grieves,
To find an equal portion in thy song
Of elegantly fair and grossly foul?
Now honest Gay, a city shepherd, sings,
Nor sings in vain to us. In Arcady
We love to stray, and dream of happy days
No eye has seen, no heart has felt. We love
The land of Fairy, and the puny deeds
Of dapper elves. Whate'er the frantic poet
In his wild mood imagines, we applaud.
Nor wholly scorn with Gay or Broom to stray,
Or Ambrose Philips, through enchanted land
To painted meadows, flow'ry lawns and hills,
To crystal floods, cool groves, and shady bow'rs,
And rills that babble, tinkle, purl, and murmur.
How sweet the song that from thy mellow pipe,
Dear Parnel, flow'd. Death overheard amaz'd,
And his stone couch forsook, all wonder now,
And now all envy. Sure he thought no bard
Of mortal mixture could such tones create;
Or if of mortal mixture, he had liv'd
Double the days of man, and stol'n from years
Due to the reign of silence and of death,
Song so divine. With the bad thought possess'd,
He keen'd his arrow on a flint, advanc'd,
And threw it greedily, his lipless jaws
Gnashing with hate. So fell betimes the bard,
So triumph'd death, and at the bloody deed
Shook his lean bones with laughter. Cursed fiend,
Thou bane of excellence, go hence, and laugh;
Yet shall the pious poet sing again,
And thou shalt hear, and with eternal wrath
Ay burning, dance with agony, and gnaw,
Howling for pain, the adamantine gates
Of treble-bolted Hell.

Away, kind bards;
Enough of you, nor shall your song beguile
One moment more; for see again sweet Spring
Laughs at our window, and with rosy hand
Shews the full blossom and the budded leaf.
Away, away. Some wintry day be thine,
Descriptive Thomson; some December night,
Thine, pious Young; some melancholy morn,
In wat'ry fog involv'd, thine, orphan Savage.
Be thou our close companion, Shenstone, thou,
Sweet bard of Hagley, in the hawthorn shade
Some weary Summer's noon. Be thou our guest,
Impetuous Akenside, some gloomy eve,
When the red lightning scarce begins to glare,
And the mute thunder hardly deigns to growl.
Rais'd by thy torrent song, we shall enjoy
The loud increasing horrors of the storm,
Awfully grand. At such a time thee too,
Rapt in ferocious ecstasy, we call,
Terrific Gray, to sweep thy sullen lyre,
And give to madness the distracted soul.
Repose at leisure, ye inferior bards,
Till Summer's beauty flies, and the green wood
Scatters her recent honours to the breeze.

So have I gayly sung the man how bless'd,
The Village Curate; weaving in my song
Your praise, ye fair, and many an honest thought
Which unsolicited demanded room.
I care not if no eye this page peruse;
I sung with pleasure, and I cease with joy.
I sing no more, and blame him not who sleeps,
Careless what I, enamour'd of the vale
And hilly woodland, have so vainly sung.
For popular applause, I ask it not.
True, noble Critic, it were ill deserv'd,
By this rude song obtain'd. Yet I not fear,
Ere the short tale of my existence close,
Some happy strain on my time-mellow'd harp
To hit, these woods may well remember. Yes,
Some happy strain, by chance, I hope to hit,
If yet the Muses love thy fam'd retreat,
O Sidney, or thy Spenser's early song;
If yet the walks where love-sick Waller mus'd,
If yet immortal Saccharissa's haunt
Delight them, and sweet Amoret's abode.