Peculiar, and exclufively her own.
Beneath the open fky fhe fpreads the feast;
"Tis free to all-'tis ev'ry day renew'd;
Who fcorns it flarves deservedly at home.
He does not fcorn it, who, imprison'd long
In fome unwholesome dungeon, and a prey
To fallow fickness, which the vapours, dank
And clammy, of his dark abode have bred,
Escapes at last to liberty and light:

His cheek recovers foon its healthful hue;
His eye relumines its extinguish'd fires;

He walks, he leaps, he runs-is wing'd with joy,
And riots in the fweets of ev'ry breeze.

He does not scorn it, who has long endur'd
A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.

Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflam'd
With acrid falts; his very heart athirst
To gaze at nature in her green array,
Upon the ship's tall fide he ftands, poffefs'd
With vifions prompted by intense defire:

Fair fields appear below, fuch as he left

Far diftant, fuch as he would die to find

He feeks them headlong, and is feen no more.

The fpleen is feldom felt where Flora reigns;

The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown,

And fullen fadnefs, that o'erfhade, diftort,

And mar, the face of beauty, when no caufe
For fuch immeasurable wo appears,

These Flora banishes, and gives the fair

Sweet fmiles, and bloom lefs tranfient than her own. It is the conftant revolution, ftale

And taftelefs, of the fame repeated joys,

That palls and fatiates, and makes languid life
A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down.
Health fuffers, and the fpirits ebb; the heart
Recoils from its own choice-at the full feaft
Is famifh'd-finds no mufic in the fong,

No smartness in the jeft; and wonders why.
Yet thousands ftill defire to journey on,
Though halt, and weary of the path they tread.
The paralytic, who can hold her cards,
But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand
To deal and fhuffie, to divide and fort,
Her mingled fuits and fequences; and fits,
Spectatress both and fpectacle, a fad
And filent cypher, while her proxy plays.
Others are dragg'd into the crowded room
Between fupporters; and, once feated, fit,
Through downright inability to rife,
Till the ftout bearers lift the corpse again.
Thefe fpeak a loud memento. Yet ev'n thefe

Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he
That overhangs a torrent to a twig.
They love it, and yet loath it; fear to die,

Yet fcorn the purposes for which they live.

Then wherefore not renounce them? No-the dread,
The flavish dread of folitude, that breeds
Reflection and remorfe, the fear of shame,
And their invet'rate habits, all forbid.

Whom call we gay? That honour has been long The boaft of mere pretenders to the name. The innocent are gay-the lark is gay, That dries his feathers, faturate with dew, Beneath the rofy cloud, while yet the beams Of day spring overshoot his humble neft. The peasant too, a witness of his song, Himself a fongfter, is as gay as he.

But fave me from the gaiety of those

Whofe head-aches nail them to a noon-day bed;
And fave me too from their's whofe haggard eyes
Flash defperation, and betray their pangs
For property ftripp'd off by cruel chance;
From gaiety that fills the bones with pain,
The mouth with blafphemy, the heart with wo.

The earth was made fo various, that the mind

Of defultory man, studious of change,

And pleas'd with novelty, might be indulg'd.
Profpects, however lovely, may be seen

Till half their beauties fade; the weary fight,
Too well acquainted with their fmiles, flides off,
Faftidious, feeking less familiar scenes.

Then fnug enclosures in the shelter'd vale,
Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,
Delight us; happy to renounce awhile,
Not fenfeless of its charms, what still we love,
That such short abfence may endear it more.
Then forests, or the favage rock, may please,
That hides the fea-mew in his hollow clefta
Above the reach of man. His hoary head,
Confpicuous many a league, the mariner,
Bound homeward, and in hope already there,
Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waift
A girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows,
And at his feet the baffled billows die.

The common, overgrown with fern, and rough
With prickly gorfe, that, shapeless and deform'd,
And dang'rous to the touch, has yet its bloom,
And decks itfelf with ornaments of gold,
Yields no unpleafing ramble; there the turf
Smells fresh, and, rich in odorif'rous herbs

And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense
With luxury of unexpected fweets.

There often wanders one, whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak of fatin trimm'd
With lace, and hat with splendid ribband bound.
A ferving maid was the, and fell in love

With one who left her, went to fea, and died.
Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves
To diftant fhores; and she would fit and weep
At what a failor fuffers; fancy, too,

Delufive moft where warmeft wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,

And dream of transports she was not to know.
She heard the doleful tidings of his death-
And never smil❜d again! and now the roams
The dreary wafte; there spends the livelong day,
And there, unless when charity forbids,
The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown
More tatter'd ftill; and both but ill conceal
A bofom heav'd with never-ceafing fighs.
She begs an idle pin of all the meets,

And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, Though prefs'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, Though pinch'd with cold, afks never.-Kate is crazd!