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Betrays the secret of their silent course.

An instant's pause, and lives but while she more Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,

Its own revolvency upholds the world. But animated nature sweeter still,

Winds from all quarters agitate the air, To soothe and satisfy the human ear.

And fit the limpid element for use, Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one

Else noxious; oceans, rivers, lakes, and streans, The livelong night: nor these alone, whose notes All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain,

By restless undulation: even the oak
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm:
In still repeated circles, screaming loud,

He seems indeed indignant, and to feel
The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl,

The impression of the blast with proud disdain, That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, He held the thunder: but the monarch owes Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, His firm stability to what he scorns, And only there, please highly for their sake. More fixt below, the more disturbed above.

The law, by which all creatures else are bound,

Binds man the lord of all. Himself deriva ON THE TOWN AND COUNTRY.

No mean advantage from a kindred cause,
Hence the declivity is sharp and short,

From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease.
And such the re-ascent; between them weeps The sedentary stretch their lazy length
A little naiad her impoverished urn

When custom bids, but no refreshment find,
All summer long, which winter fills again.

For none they need: the languid eye, the cheet The folded gates would bar my progress now,

Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, But that the lord of this enclosed demesne,

And withered muscle, and the vapid soul, Communicative of the good he owns,

Reproach their owner with that love of rest,
Admits me to a share; the guiltless eye

To which he forfeits even the rest he loves.
Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. Not such the alert and active. Measure life
Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun? By its true worth, the comforts it affords,
By short transition we have lost his glare,

And theirs alone seems worthy of the name.
And stepped at once into a cooler clime.

Good health, and, its ass

iate in the most, Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn

Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake, Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice

And not soon spent, though in an arduous task; That yet a remnant of your race survives.

The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs; How airy and how light the graceful arch,

Even age itself seems privileged in them, Yet awful as the consecrated roof

With clear exemption from its own defects.
Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath

A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front
The chequered earth seems restless as a flood The veteran shows, and, gracing a gray beard
Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the light

With youthful smiles, descends toward the grase Shot through the bouglis, it dances as they dance, Sprightly, and old almost without decay. Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,

Like a coy maiden, ease, when courted mosi, And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves

Farthest retires-an idol, at whose shrine Play wanton, every moment, every spot. [cheered,

Who oftenest sacrifice are favoured least. And now, with nerves new-braced and spirits

The love of Nature, and the scenes she draws, We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks, Is nature's dictate. Strange! there should be found, With curvature of slow and easy sweep

Who, self-imprisoned in their proud saloors, Deception innocent-give ample space

Renounce the odours of the open field To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;

For the unscented fictions of the loom; Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms Who, satisfied with only pencilled scenes, We may discern the thresher at his task.

Prefer to the performance of a God Thump after thump resounds the constant flail,

The inferior wonders of an artist's hand! That seems to swing uncertain, and yet falls Lovely indeed the mimic works of art; Full on the destined ear. Wide di the chaff,

But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire,
The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist None more admires the painter's magic skill,
Of atoms, sparkling in the noon-day beam.

Who shows me that which I shall never see,
Come hither, ye that press your beds of down, Conveys a distant country into mine,
And sleep not; see him sweating o'er his bread And throws Italian light on English walls;
Before he eats it.—'Tis the primal curse,

But imitative strokes can do no more
But softened into mercy; made the pledge

Than please the eye-sweet Nature's every sens. Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan. The air salubrious of her lofty hills, By ceaseless action all that is subsists.

The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel

And music of her woods-10 works of man That nature rides upon maintains her health, May rival these, these all bespeak a power Her beauty; her fertility. She dreads

Peculiar, and exclusively her own,


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Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast; Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams
'Tis free to ali—'tis every day renewed;

Of day-spring overshoot his humble nest.
Who scorns it starves deservedly at home.

The peasant too, a witness of his song,
He does not scorn it, who, imprisoned long

Himself a songster, is as gay as he.
In some uuwholesome dungeon, and a prey

But save me from the gaiety of those,
To sallow sickness, which the vapours, dank Whose head-aches nail them to a noon-day bed;

And save me too from theirs, whose haggard eyes
And clammy, of his dark abode have bred,
Escapes at last to liberty and light:

Flash desperation, and betray their pangs
His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue;

For property stripped off by cruel chance;
His eye relumines its extinguished fires;

From gaiety, that fills the bones with pain,
He walks, he leaps, he runs—is winged with joy, The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe.
And riots in the sweets of every breeze.

The earth was made so various, that the mind
He does not scorn it, who has long endured

Of desultory man, studious of change,
A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.

And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed

Prospects, however lovely, may be seen

Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight,
With acrid salts; his very heart athirst
To gaze at nature in her green array.

Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possessed

Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes.

Then snug enclosures in the sheltered vale,
With visions prompted by intense desire:
Fair fields appear below, such as he left

Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,
Far distant, such as he would die to find

Delight us; happy to renounce awhile,
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.

Not senseless of its charms, what still we love,
The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns;

That such short absence may endear it more. The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown,

Then forests, or the savage rock, may please,

That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts
And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort,

Above the reach of man.
And mar, the face of beauty, when no cause

His hoary head,
For such immeasurable woe appears,

Conspicuous many a league, the mariner
These Flora banishes, and gives the fair

Bound homeward, and in hope already there,
Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own. Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist
It is the constant revolution, stale

A girdle of half-withered shrubs he shows,
And tasteless, of the same repeated joys,

And at his feet the baffled billows die.
Thnt palls and satiates, and makes languid life The common, overgrown with fern, and rough
A fedlar's pack, that bows the bearer duwn. With prickly gorse, that shapeless and deformed,
Health suffers, and the spirits ebb, the heart And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom,
Recoils from its own choice-at the full feast

And decks itself with ornaments of gold,
Is famished-finds no music in the song,

Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf
No smartness in the jest; and wonders why.

Smells fresh, and rich in odoriferous herbs
Yet thousands still desire to journey on,

And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense
Though lialt, and weary of the path they tread. With luxury of unexpected sweets.
The paralytic, who can hold her cards,

There often wanders one, whom better days
But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed
To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort

With lace, and hat with splendid ribband bound.
Her mingled suits and sequences; and sits,

A serving maid was she, and fell in love
Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad

With one who left her, went to sea, and died.
And silent cypher, while her proxy plays.

Her fancy followed him through foaming waves Others are dragged into the crowded rooin

To distant shores; and she would sit and weep
Between supporters; and, once seated, sit,

At what a sailor suffers ; fancy too,
Through downright inability to rise,

Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again.

Would oft anticipate his glad return,
These speak a loud memento. Yet even these

And dream of transports she was not to know.
Themselves we life, and cling to it, as he

She heard the doleful tidings of his death
That overhangs a torrent to a twig.

And never smiled again! and now she roams
They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die,

The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,
Yet scorn the purposes for which they live.

And there, unless when charity forbids,
Then wherefore not renounce them? No--the dread,

The livelong night. A tattered apron hides,
The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds

Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gowo
Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame,

More tattered still; and both but ill conceal
And their inveterate habits, all forbid.

A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.
Whom call we gay? That honour has been long

She begs an idle pin of all she meets,
The boast of mere pretenders to the name.

And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,
The innocent are gay—the lark is gay,

Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier That dries his feathers, saturate with dew,



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Though pinched with cold, asks never.-Kate is Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside. crazed.

Thus fare the shivering natives of the north, I see a column of slow-rising smoke

And thus the rangers of the western world, O'ertop the lofty wood, that skirts the wild.

Where it advances far into the deep, A vagabond and useless tribe there eat

Towards the Antarctic. Even the favoured isles Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung

So lately found, although the constant sun Between two poles upon a stick transverse,

Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, Receives the morsel-flesh obscene of dog,

Can boast but little virtue; and inert Or vermin, or at best of cock purloined

Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race ! In manners-victims of luxurious ease. They pick their fuel out of every hedge,

These therefore I can pity, placed remote Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un- From all that science traces, art invents, quenched

Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide In boundless oceans never to be passed Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin, By navigators uninformed as they, The vellum of the pedigree they claim.

Or ploughed perhaps by British bark again:
Great skill have they in palmistry, and more But far beyond the rest, and with most cause
To conjure clean away the gold they touch, Thee. gentle savage! whom no love of thee
Conveying worthless dross into its place;

Or thine, but curiosity perhaps,
Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal. Or else vain glory, prompted us to draw
Strange! that a creature rational, and cast

Forth from thy native bowers, to shew thee here
In human mould, should brutalize by choice With what superior skill we can abuse
His nature; and, though capable of arts,

The gifts of Providence, and squander life. By which the world might profit, and himself, The dream is past; and thou hast found again Self-banished from society, prefer

Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams, (bend Such squalid sloth to honourable toil!

And homestall thatched with leaves. But has iten Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft Their former charms? And having seen our stake, They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp And vex their flesh with artificial sores,

Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports, Can change their whine into a mirthful note, And heard our music; are thy simple friends, When safe occasion offers; and with dance, Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights, And music of the bladder and the bag,

As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. Lost nothing by comparison with ours? Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy

Rude as thou art, (for we returned thee rude The houseless rovers of the sylvan world;

And ignorant, except of outward sbow) And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering much, I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart Need other physic none to heal the effects

And spiritless, as never to regret Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.

Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as knowo. Blest he, though undistinguished from the crowd Methinks I see thee straying on the beach, By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure,

And asking of the surge, that bathes thy foot, Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside

If ever it has washed our distant shore. His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn, I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears, The manners and the arts of civil life.

A patriot's for his country: thou art sad His wants indeed are many; but supply

At thought of her forlorn and abject state, Is obvious, placed within the easy reach

From which no power of thine can raise her up: Of temperate wishes and industrious hands.

Thus fancy paints thee, and though apt to eff. Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil;

Perhaps errs little when she paints thee ihus. Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns,

She tells me too that duly every moru And terrible to sight, as when she springs

Thou climb'st the mountain top, with eager efe (If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote And barbarous climes, where violence prevails,

Exploring far and wide the watery waste

For sight of ship from England. Every speck
And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind, Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale
By culture tamed, by liberty refreshed,

With conflict of contending hopes and fears.
And all her fruits by radiant truth matured.

But comes at last the dull and dusky eve, War and the chase engross the savage whole;

And sends thee to thy cabin, well prepared War followed for revenge, or to supplant

To dream all night of what the day denied. The envied tenants of some happier spot:

Alas! expect it not. We found no bait The chase for sustenance, precarious trust!

To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, His hard condition with severe constraint

Disinterested good, is not our trade. Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth

We travel far, 'tis true, but not for nought; Of wisdom, proves a school, in which he learns And must be bribed to compass earth again Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate,

By other hopes and richer fruits than yours.

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But though true worth and virtue in the mild That, through profane and infidel contempt
And genial soil of cultivated life

Of holy writ, she has presumed to aonul
Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, And abrogate, as roundly as she may,
Yet not in cities oft: in proud and gay

The total ordinance and will of God;
And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow,

Advancing fashion to the post of truth,
As to a common and most noisome sewer,

And centering all authority in modes
The dregs and feculence of every land.

And customs of her own, till sabbath rites
In cities, foul example on most ininds

Have dwindled into unrespected forms,
Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorced.
In gross and pampered cities sloth and lust,

God made the country, and man made the town.
And wantonness and gluttonous excess.

What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts,
In cities, vice is hidden with most ease,

That can alone make sweet the bitter draught,
Or seen with least repro-ch; and virtue, taught That life holds out to all, should most abound
By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there And least be threatened in the fields and groves?
Beyond the achievement of successful flight. Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about
I do confess them nurseries of the arts,

In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue
In which they flourish most; where, in the beams But that of idleness, and taste no scenes
Of warm encouragement, and in the eye

But such as art contrives, possess ye still
Of public note, they reach their perfect size. Your element; there only can ye shine;
Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaimed There only minds like yours can do no harm.
The fairest capital of all the world,

Our groves were planted to console at noon
By riot and incontinence the worst.

The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve
There, touched by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes The moon-beam, sliding softly in between
A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees

The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,
All her reflected features. Bacon there

Birds warbling all the music. We can spare Gives more than female beauty to a stone,

The splendour of your lamps; they but eclipse
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.

Our softer satellite. Your songs confound
Nor does the chisel occupy alone

Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs
The powers of sculpture, but the style as much ; Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute.
Each province of her art her equal care.

There is a public mischief in your mirth ;
With nice incision of her guided steel

It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,
She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan,
So sterile with what charms soe'er she will,

Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done,
The richest scenery and the loveliest forms.

Our arch of empire, stedfast but for you,
Where finds philosophy her eagle eye,

A mutilated structure, soon to fall.
With which she gazes at yon burning disk
Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots ?

In London. Where her implements exact,
With which she calculates, computes and scans, I was a stricken deer, that left the herd
All distance, motion, magnitude, and now

Long since; with many an arrow deep infixt
Measures an atom, and now girds a world?

My panting side was charged, when I withdrew
In London. Where has commerce such a mart, To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.
So rich, so thronged, so drained, and so supplied, There was I found by one, who had himself
As London-opulent, enlarged, and still

Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore,
Increasing, London? Babylon of old

And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars,
Not more the glory of the earth than slie,

With gentle force soliciting the darts,
A more accomplished world's chief glory now. He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live.

She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, Since then, with few associates, in remote
That so much beauty would do well to purge; And silent woods I wander, far from those
And show this queen of cities, that so fair

My former partners of the peopled scene;
May yet be foul; so witty, yet not wise.

With few associates, and not wishing more.
It is not seemly, nor of good report,

Here much I ruminate, as much as I may,
That she is slack in discipline; more prompt

With other views of men and manners now

Than once, and others of a life to come.
avenge than to prevent the breach of law:
That she is rigid in denouncing death

I see that all are wanderers, gone astray
On petty robbers, and indulges life

Each in his own delusions; they are lost
And liberty, and oft-times honour too,

In chase of fancied happiness, still wooed
To peculators of the public gold;

And never won. Dream after dream ensues;
That thieves at home must hang; but he that puts And still they dream that they shall still succeed,
Into his overgorged and bloated purse

And still are disappointed. Rings the world The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.

With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind,

And add two thirds of the remaining half,
Nor is it well, nor can it come to good,

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And find the total of their hopes and fears

'Twere well, could you permit the world to live Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay As the world pleases. What's the world to you! 017 As if created only like the fly,

Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk That spreads his motley wings in the eye of noon, As sweet as charity from human breasts.

Ld To sport their season, and be seen no more.

I think, articulate, I laugh and weep,
The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise,

And exercise all functions of a man.
And pregnant with discoveries new and rare. How then should I and any man that lives
Some write a narrative of wars, and feats

Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein,
Of heroes little known; and call the rant

Take of the crimson stream meandering there, Ea A history: describe the man, of whom

And catechise it well; apply thy glass, His own coevals took but little note,

Search it, and prove now if it be not blood And paint his person, character, and views,

Congenial with thine own; and, if it be, As they had known him from his mother's womb. What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose They disentangle from the puzzled skein,

Keen enough, wise and skilful as thouart, In which obscurity has wrapped them up,

To cut the link of brotherhood, by which
The threads of politic and shrewd design,

One common Maker bound me to the kind!
That ran through all his purposes, and ge True; I am no proficient, I confess,
His mind with meanings that he never had, In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift
Or having kept concealed. Some drill and bore And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds,
The solid earth, and from the strata there

And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath; Extract a register, by which we learn,

I cannot analyze the air, nor catch That he who made it, and revealed its date

The parallax of yonder luminous point, To Moses, was mistaken in its age.

That seems half quenched in the immense abys: Some, more acute, and more industrious still, Such powers I boast not-neither can I rest Contrive creation ; travel nature up

A silent witness of the headlong rage, To the sharp peak of her sublimest height,

Or heedless folly, by which thousands die, And tell us whence the stars; why some are fixed, Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. And planetary some; what gave them first

God never meant that man should scale the heavens Rotation, from what fountain flowed their light. By strides of human wisdom. In his works Great contest follows, and much learned dust Though wondrous, he commands us in his word Involves the combatants; each claiming truth, To seek him rather, where his mercy shines. And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend The mind indeed, enlightened from abore, The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp

Views him in all; ascribes to the grand cause In playing tricks with nature, giving laws

The grand effect; acknowledges with joy To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums

But never yet did philosophic tube, Should ever tease the lungs, and blear the sight That brings the planets home unto the eye Of oracles like these ? Great pity too,

Of observation, and discovers, else That having wielded the elements, and built Not visible, his family of worlds, A thousand systems, each in his own way,

Discover him, that rules them; such a veil They should go out in fume, and be forgot? Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, Ah! what is life thus spent? and what are they And dark in things divine. Full often too But frantic, who thus spend it i all for smoke- Our wayward intellect, the more we learn Eternity for bubbles proves at last

Of nature, overlooks her author more; A senseless bargain. When I see such games From instrumental causes proud to draw Played by the creatures of a power, who swears Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake. That he will judge the earth, and call the fool But if his word once teach us, shoot a ray To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain; Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well, Truths undiscerned but by that holy light, And prove it in the infallible result

Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptized So hollow and so false-I feel my heart

In the pure fountain of eternal love, Dissolve in pity, and account the learned,

Has eyes indeed; and viewing all she sees
If this be learning, most of all deceived.

As meant to indicate a God to man,
Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps, Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own.
While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. Learning has borne such fruit in other days
Defend me therefore common sense, say I,

On all her branches: piety has found
From reveries so airy, from the toil

Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer Of dropping buckets into empty wells,

Has flowed from lips wet with Castalian dews. And growing old in drawing nothing up!

Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage! 'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound, Sagacious reader of the works of God, Terribly arched and aquiline his nose,

And in his word sagacious. Such too thine, And overbuilt with most impending brows, Milton, whose genius had angelic wings,

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