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Since then, with few associates, in remote
Defend me therefore, common sense, say I,
And growing old in drawing nothing up!
“ 'T were well,” says one sage erudite, profound, With other views of men and manners now Terribly arch'd, and aquiline his nose, Than once, and others of a life to come.
And overbuilt with most impending brows, I see that all are wand'rers, gone astray
• 'T'were well, could you permit the World to live Each in his own delusion; they are lost
As the World pleases: what's the World to you ?"
Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk
Be strangers to each other ? Pierce my vein,
Take of the crimson stream meand'ring there,
Search it, and prove now if it be not blood
One common Maker bound me to the kind ? Of heroes little known; and call the rant
True, I am no proficient, I confess, A history: describe the man, of whom
In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift His own coëvals took but little note,
And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds,
And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath ;
The parallax of yonder lum'nous point,
That seems half-quench'd in the immense abyss : The threads of politic and shrewd design,
Such pow'rs I boast not-neither can I rest
A silent witness of the headlong rage,
God never meant, that man should scale the
Though wondrous: he commands us in his word
The mind, indeed, enlighten'd from above,
Discover him, that rules them; such a veil
Our wayward intellect, the more we learn
From instrumental causes proud to draw
But if his word once teach us, shoot a ray
In the pure fountain of eternal love,
Friends in the friends of science, and true pray'r
Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. Dissolve in pity, and account the learn'd,
Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage! If this be learning, most of all deceiv'd.
Sagacions reader of the works of God, Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps, And in his word sagacious. Such too thine, While thoughtful man is plausibly amus’d. Milton, whose genius had angelic wings,
And fed on manna! And such thine, in whom And clamors of the field ?-Detested sport
With eloquence, that agonies inspire,
Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs ?
Well—one at least is safe. One shelter'd hare
Innocent partner of my peaceful home The only amaranthine flow'r on Earth
Whom ten long years' experience of my care Is virtue; th' only lasting treasure, truth.
Has made at last familiar; she has lost But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question put Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply.
Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. And wherefore? will not God impart his light Yes thou may'st eat thy bread, and lick the hand To them that ask it ?–Freely—-'tis his joy, That feeds thee; thou may'st frolic on the floor His glory, and his nature to impart.
At ev'ning, and at night retire secure But to the proud, uncandid, insincere,
To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarınd; Or negligent inquirer, not a spark.
For I have gain'd thy confidence, have pledg'd What's that, which brings contempt upon a book,
All that is human in me, to protect
If I survive thee, I will dig thy grave;
And, when I place thee in it, sighing say, The joy of many, and the dread of more ; I knew at least one hare that had a friend. His name a theme for praise and for reproach ?- How various his employments, whom the world That, while it gives us worth in God's account, Calls idle; and who justly in return Depreciates and undoes us in our own?
Esteems that busy world an idler too! What pearl is it, that rich men cannot buy,
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, That learning is too proud to gather up;
Delightful industry enjoy'd at home, But which the poor, and the despis'd of all, And Nature in her cultivated trim Seek and obtain, and often find unsought ?
Dress'd 10 his taste, inviting him abroadTell me—and I will tell thee what is truth. Can he want occupation, who has these? O friendly to the best pursuits of man,
Will he be idle, who has much l' enjoy ? Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Me therefore studious of laborious ease, Domestic life in rural pleasure past !
Not slothful, happy to deceive the time,
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,
From whom are all our blessings, business finds Ev'n as his first progenitor, and quits,
Ey'n here! while sedulous I seek t'improve, Though plac'd in Paradise, (for Earth has still At least neglect not, or leave unemployd, Some traces of her youthful beauty left)
The mind he gave me; driving it, though slack Substantial happiness for transient joy.
Too oft, and much impeded in its work
He, that attends to his interior self,
That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind Compose the passions, and exalt the mind; That hungers, and supplies it; and who seeks Scenes such as these, 'tis his supreme delight A social, not a dissipated life, To fill with riot, and defile with blood.
Has business ; feels himself engag'd t'achieve Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes No unimportant, though a silent, task. We persecute, annihilate the tribes,
A life all turbulence and noise may seem, That draw the sportsman over hill and dale To him that leads it, wise, and to be prais d; Fearless and rapt away from all his cares ;
But wisdom is a pearl with most success Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies : Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye;
He that is ever occupied in storms, Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song, Or dives not for it, or brings up instead, Be quell'd in all our summer-months' retreats; Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize. How many self-deluded nymphs and swains,
The morning finds the self-sequester'd man Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves, Fresh for his task, intend what task he may. Wonld find them hideous nurs’ries of the spleen, Whether inclement seasons recommend And crowd the roads, impatient for the town! His warm but simple home, where he enjoys They love the country, and none else, who seek With her, who shares his pleasures and his heart, For their own sake its silence, and its shade, Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph, Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Which neatly she prepares; then to his book Susceptible of pity, or a mind
Well chosen, and not sullenly perus’d Cultur'd and capable of sober thought,
In selfish silence, but imparted oft, For all the savage din of the swift pack,
As aught occurs, that she may smile to hear,
Or turn to nourishment, digested well.
For, ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf Or if the garden with its many cares,
Deciduous, when now November dark
Checks vegetation in the torpid plant
Warily therefore, and with prudent heed,
He seeks a favor'd spot; that where he builds Or misapplying his unskilful strength.
Th' agglomerated pile, his frame may front
The Sun's meridian disk, and at the back
Dry fern or litter'd hay, that may imbibe
From the full fork, the saturated straw.
And overlaid with clear translucent glass,
He settles next upon the sloping mount,
Thrice must the voluble and restless Earth
Slow gath'ring in the midst, through the square mass Large expectation, he disposes neat
Diffus'd, attain the surface: when, behold ! At measur'd distances, that air and sun,
A pestilent and most corrosive steam,
Like a gross fog Baotian, rising fast,
And, purified, rejoices to have lost
Within its reeking bosom, threat’ning death
To his young hopes, requires discreet delay. For oft, as if in her the stream of mild
Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft
The way to glory by miscarriage foul,
To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd, These on the warm and genial earth, that hides
The smoking manure, and o'erspreads it all, So coveted, else base and disesteemid,
He places lightly, and, as time subdues Food for the vulgar merely—is an art
The rage of fermentation, plunges deep That toiling ages have but just matur'd,
In the soft medium, till they stand immers’d.
Then rise the tender germs, upstarting quick
Two leaves produc'd, two rough indented leaves,
Cautious he pinches from the second stalk
And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed
Prolific all, and harbingers of more.
The crowded roots demand enlargement now, The stable yields a stercorareous heap, And transplantation in an ampler space. Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, Indulg'd in what they wish, they soon supply And potent to resist the freezing blast;
Large foliage, overshadowing golden flow'rs,
Blown on the summit of th' apparent fruit. Of their complete effect. Much yet remains
And more laborious; cares on which depends
The soil must be renew'd, which often wash'd Not so when Winter scowls. Assistant Art
Loses its treasure of salubrious salts,
Close interwoven, where they meet the vase Grudge not, ye rich, (since Luxury must have Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch His dainties, and the world's more num'rous half Must fly before the knife; the wither'd leaf Lives by contriving delicates for you,)
Must be detach'd, and where it strews the floor Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares, Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else The vigilance, the labor, and the skill
Contagion, and disseminating death.
Would spare, that loves them, offices like these !)
All healthful, are th' employs of rural life, Minute as dust, and numberless, oft work
Reiterated as the wheel of time Dire disappointment, that admits no cure,
Runs round; still ending, and beginning still. And which no care can obviate. It were long, Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll, Too long, to tell th' expedients and the shifts, That softly swell’d and gaily dress'd appears Which he that fights a season so severe
A flow'ry island, from the dark-green lawn Devises, while he guards his tender trust;
Emerging, must be deem'd a labor due And oft at last in vain. The learn'd and wise To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song Here also grateful mixture of well-match'd Cold as its theme, and like its theme the fruit And sorted hues (each giving each relief, Of 100 much labor, worthless when produc'd. And by contrasted beauty shining more)
Who loves a garden, loves a greenhouse too. is needful. Strength may wield the pond'rous Unconscious of a less propitious clime,
And most attractive, is the fair result
Without it, all is Gothic as the scene
To which th' insipid citizen resorts Peep through their polish'd foliage at the storm, Near yonder heath; where Industry misspent, And seem to smile at what they need not fear. But proud of his uncouth ill-chosen task, Th' amomum there with intermingling flow'rs Has made a Heaven on Earth ; with suns and moons And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts Of close-ramm'd stones has charg'd th' encumber'd Her crimson honors; and the spangled beau,
soil, Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long.
And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust. All plants, of ev'ry leaf, that can endure
He, therefore, who would see his fou'rs dispos'd The winter's frown, if screen'd from his shrewd bite, Sightly and in just order, ere he gives Live there, and prosper. Those Ausonia claims, The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds, Levantine regions these; th' Azores send
Forecasts the future whole; that when the scene Their jessamine : her jessamine remote
Shall break into its preconceiv'd display, Catfraria : foreigners from many lands,
Each for itself, and all as with one voice
Nor even then, dismissing as perform u
Few self-supported flow'rs endure the wind
Uninjur’d, but expect th' upholding aid Must lend its aid t' illustrate all their charms, Of the smooth-shaven prop, and neatly tied, And dress the regular yet various scene.
Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van
For int’rest sake, the living to the deal. The dwarfish, in the rear retir'd, but still
Some clothe the soil that feeds thern, far diffus'd Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand.
And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair,
Else unadorn’d, with many a gay festoon
AI rrant chaplet, recompensing well And covetous of Shakspeare's beauty, seen The s... th they borrow with ihe grace they lend In ev'ry flash of his far-beaming eye.
All hate the rank society of weeds,
Noisome, and ever greedy to exhaust
That, like the multitude made faction-mad,
What England was, plain, hospitable, kind,
To all the virtues of those better days,
Knew their own masters; and laborious hinds,
Who had surviv'd the father, serv'd the son.
Is hut a transient guest, newly arriv'd,
As soon to be supplanted. He, that saw
His patrimonial timber cast its leaf,
Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price
Estates are landscapes, gaz'd upon awhile,
The country starves, and they, that feed th'o'ercharg'd
And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues,
By a just judgment strip and starve themselves.
That never tire, soon fans them all away.
Improvement, too, the idol of the age,
Is fed with many a victim. Lo, he comes !
Th'omnipotent magician, Brown, appears!
Down falls the venerable pile, th' abode
But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead,
Those naked acres to a shelt'ring grove.
He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn;
Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise;
And streams, as if created for his use,
Pursue the track of his directing wand,
'Tis finish’d, and yet, finish'd as it seems,
That he has touch'd, retouch'd, many a long day
Labor'd, and many a night pursu'd in dreams,
Her int'rests, or that gives her sacred cause
He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal,
Deals him out money from the public chest;
To be refunded duly, when his vote
Well-manag'd shall have earn'd its worthy price. Abandon'd, as unworthy of our love.
O innocent, compar'd with arts like these, But are not wholesome airs, though unperfum'd Crape, and cock'd pistol, and the whistling ball By roses; and clear suns, though scarcely felt; Sent through the trav’ller's temples! He that finds And groves, if ur harmonious, yet secure
One drop of Heaven's sweet mercy in his cup, From clamor, and whose very silence charms; Can dig, beg, rot, and perish, well content; To be preferr'd to smoke, to the eclipse,
So he may wrap himself in honest rags That metropolitan volcanoes make,
At his last gasp; but could not for a world Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day long; Fish up his dirty and dependent bread And to the stir of Coinmerce, driving slow, From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, And thund'ring loud, with his ten thousand wheels? Sordid and sick’ning at his own success. They would be, were not madness in the head, Ambition, av’rice, penury incurr'd And folly in the heart; were England now, By endless riot, vanity, the lust