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Why else the smiling infant-train fo bleft,
Ere dear-bought knowledge ends the peace within,
Or wild defire inflames the youthful breaft,
Or ill propenfion ripens into fin?
As to the bleating tenants of the field,
As to the sportive warblers on the trees,
To them their joys fincere the seasons yield,
And all their days and all their prospects please;
Such joys were mine when from the peopled streets,
Where on THAMESIS' banks I liv’d-immur'd,
The new-blown fields that breath'd a thousand sweets,
TO SURRY'S wood-crown'd hills my steps allur'd:
O happy hours, beyond recov'ry fled !
What share I now that can your lofs repay,"
Whileo'er my mind thefe glooms of thought are spread,
And veil the light of life's meridian ray?
Is there no power this darkness to remove?
The long-loft joys of EDEN to restore?
Or raise our views to happier feats above,
Where fear and pain and death shall be no more?
Yes, thofe there are who know a SAVIOUR's love
The long-loft joys of EDEN can restore,
And raife their views to happier seats above,
Where fear and pain and death shall be no more:
These grateful share the gift of nature's hand;
And in the varied scenes that round them shine,
(The fair, the rich, the awful, and the grand)
Admire th' amazing workmanship divine.
Blows not a flow'ret in th' enamell'd vale,
Shines not a pebble where the riv'let strays,
Sports not an infect on the spicy gale,
But claims their wonder and excites their praise,
For them ev'n vernal nature looks more gay,
For them more lively hues the fields adorn ;
To them more fair the fairest smile of day,
To them more fweet the fweetest breath of morn.
They feel the blifs that hope and faith supply;
They pass ferene th' appointed hours that bring
The day that wafts them to the realms on high,
The day that centers in eternal spring.
BY THE SAME.
N diff'rent seasons diff'rent joys we place, And these shall spring supply, and fummer these; Yet frequent ftorms the bloom of spring deface, And fummer fcarcely brings a day to please.
WRITTEN AT THE APPROACH OF WINTER.
BY THE SAME.
HE fun far fouthward bends his annual way, The bleak north-eaft wind lays the forefts bare, The fruit ungather'd quits the naked spray, And dreary winter reigns o'er earth and air,
No mark of vegetable life is seen,
No bird to bird repeats his tuneful call;
Save the dark leaves of fome rude evergreen,
Save the lone red-breast on the moss-grown wall.
Where are the sprightly scenes by spring supply'd, The May-flower'd hedges fcenting every breeze; The white flocks scatt'ring o'er the mountain fide, The woodlarks warbling on the blooming trees?
Where is gay fummer's sportive infect train,
That in green fields on painted pinions play'd?
The herd at morn wide-pafturing o'er the plain,
Or throng'd at noon-tide in the willow fhade?
Where is brown autumn's ev'ning mild and still,
What time the ripen'd corn fresh fragrance yields,
What time the village peoples all the hill,
And loud fhouts echo o'er the harveft fields?
To former scenes our fancy thus returns,
To former scenes that little pleas'd when here!
Our winter chills us and our summer burns,
Yet we diflike the changes of the year.
To happier lands then restless fancy flies,
Where INDIAN ftreams thro' green Savannahs flow;
Where brighter funs and ever-tranquil skies
Bid new fruits ripen and new flow'rets blow.
Let truth these fairer happier lands furvey,
There half the year defcends in wat'ry ftorms;
Or nature fickens in the blaze of day,
And one brown hue the sun-burnt plain deforms,
There oft as toiling in the maizey fields,
Or homeward paffing on the fhadeless way,
His joyless life the weary lab'rer yields,
And inftant drops beneath the deathful ray.
Who dreams of nature free from nature's ftrife?
Who dreams of conftant happiness below?
'The hope-flush'd ent'rer on the stage of life;
The youth to knowledge unchaftis'd by woe.
For me, long toil'd on many a weary road,
Led by falfe hope in search of many a joy;
I find in earth's bleak clime no bleft abode,
No place, no feason facred from annoy:
For me, while winter rages round the plains,
With his dark days I'll human life compare;
Not those more fraught with clouds and winds and rains,
Than this with pining pain and anxious care.
O whence this wond'rous turn of mind our fate!
Whate'er the season or the place poffeft,
We ever murmur at our present state;
And yet the thought of parting breaks our reft:
Why elfe, when heard in ev'ning's folemn gloom,
Does the fad knell that founding o'er the plain,
Tolls fome poor lifeless body to the tomb,
Thus thrill my breaft with melancholy pain?
The voice of reafon echoes in my ear,
Thus thou ere long must join thy kindred clay;
No more these "noftrils breathe the vital air,”
No more thefe eyelids open on the day.
O winter, round me spread thy joylefs reign,
Thy threat'ning fkies in dufky horrors dreft;
Of thy dread rage no longer I'll complain,
Nor ask an EDEN for a tranfient guest.
Enough has heaven indulg'd of joy below,
To tempt our tarriance in this lov'd retreat;
Enough has heaven ordain'd of useful woe,
To make us languish for a happier seat.