My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice

Had found me, or the hope of being free.

My very dreams were rural, rural too

The first-born efforts of my youthful muse,
Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells

Ere yet

her ear was mistress of their pow'rs.

No bard could please me but whose lyre was tun'd
To Nature's praifes. Heroes and their feats
Fatigu'd me, never weary of the pipe
Of Tityrus, affembling, as he fang,

The ruftic throng beneath his fav'rite beech.
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms:
New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'd
The ftruggling efforts of my boyish tongue
To speak its excellence; I danc'd for joy.
I marvel'd much that at fo ripe an age

As twice fev'n years, his beauties had then first
Engag'd my wonder, and admiring ftill,
And still admiring, with regret fuppos'd
The joy half loft because not fooner found.

Thee

Thee too, enamour'd of the life I loy'd,

Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit

Determin'd, and poffeffing it at last

With transports fuch as favor'd lovers feel,

I ftudied, priz'd, and wish'd that I had known,
Ingenious Cowley! and though now reclaim'd,
By modern lights, from an erroneous taste,
I cannot but lament thy fplendid wit
Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools,

I still revere thee, courtly though retir'd,
Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's filent bow'rs,
Not unemploy'd, and finding rich amends

For a loft world in folitude and verse.

'Tis born with all the love of Nature's works

Is an ingredient in the compound, man,
Infus'd at the creation of the kind.

And though th' Almighty Maker has throughout
Difcriminated each from each, by strokes

And touches of his hand, with so much art

Diversified, that two were never found

Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all,
That all difcern a beauty in his works,

And all can taste them: minds that have been form'd

And tutor❜d with a relifh more exact,

But none without fome relish, none unmov'd.

It is a flame that dies not even there,

Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds,

Nor habits of luxurious city-life,

Whatever else they fmother of true worth
In human bofoms, quench it, or abate.
The villas with which London stands begirt,
Like a fwarth Indian with his belt of beads,
Prove it. A breath of unadult'rate air,

The glimpfe of a green pafture, how they cheer
The citizen, and brace his languid frame!
Ev'n in the stifling bofam of the town,

A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms
That foothe the rich poffeffor; much confol'd
That here and there fome fprigs of mournful mint,
Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well

He

He cultivates.

Thefe ferve him with a hint

That Nature lives; that fight-refreshing green

Is ftill the liv'ry fhe delights to wear,

Though fickly famples of th' exub'rant whole.

What are the casements lin'd with creeping herbs, The prouder fashes fronted with a range

Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed

*

The Frenchman's darling? Are they not all proofs

That man, immur'd in cities, ftill retains

His inborn inextinguishable thirst

Of rural scenes, compenfating his lofs

By fupplemental shifts, the best he may?

The most unfurnish'd with the means of life,

And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds
To range the fields and treat their lungs with air,
Yet feel the burning instinct: over-head

Sufpend their crazy boxes, planted thick,

And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands

* Mignonnette.

A fragment,

A fragment, and the fpoutlefs tea-pot there;
Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets
The country, with what ardour he contrives
A peep at nature, when he can no more.

Hail, therefore, patronefs of health and ease,
And contemplation, heart-confoling joys
And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abode
Of multitudes unknown! hail, rural life!
Address himself who will to the pursuit
Of honors, or emolument, or fame,

I fhall not add myself to fuch a chace,
Thwart his attempts, or envy his fuccefs.
Some must be great. Great offices will have
Great talents and God gives to ev'ry man
The virtue, temper, understanding, taste,

That lifts him into life, and lets him fall

Juft in the niche he was ordain'd to fill.
To the deliv'rer of an injur'd land

He gives a tongue t' enlarge upon, an heart

VOL. II.

N

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