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TAINK'st thou the steed that restless roves O'er rocks and mountains, fields and groves,

With wild, unbridled bound, Finds fresher pasture than the bee, On thymy bank or vernal tree, Intent to store her industry

Within her waxen round?

Think'st thou the fountain forced to turn
Through marble vase or sculptured urn,

Affords a sweeter draught
Than that which, in its native sphere,
Perennial, undisturb’d and clear,
Flows, the lone traveller's thirst to cheer,

And wake his grateful thought ? Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold The worldling's pomp and miser's gold,

Obtains a richer prize
Than he who, in his cot at rest,
Finds heavenly peace, a willing guest,
And bears the promise in his breast

Of treasure in the skies?




Turice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!
When courts are happiness, unhappy pawns !
His cottage low and safely humble gate
Shut out proud Fortune, with her scorns and

No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep :
Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.
No Serian worms he knows, that with their threau
Draw out their silken lives: nor silken pride :
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed :
No empty hopes no courtly fears him fright:
Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite :
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.
Instead of music, and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise ;
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,
And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes :
In country plays is all the strife he uses;
Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses;
And but in music's sports all difference refuses
His certain life, that never can deceive hin,

Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content:
The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive

With coolest shades, till noon-tide rage is spent:
His life is neither toss'd in boist'rous seas
Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease;
Pleased, and full blest he lives, when he his God

please. His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, While by his side his faithful spouse hath place ; His little son into his bosom creeps, The lively picture of his father's face: Never his humble house nor state torment him ; Less he could like, if less his God had sent him; And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb,

content him.


There is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy,
No chemic art can counterfeit ;
It makes men rich in greatest poverty,
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,
The homely whistle to sweet music's strain ;
Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent,
That much in little--all in nought-Content,



Sır, you do me wrong; I boast no virtue when I claim content With that which you have left me ;-would not

change My naked turret, in its mountain hold, Reached by the path along whose rugged steeps Discord and envy climb not, for the fields Rich Inverary in its scornful groves Embosoms; and to me the mouldering walls Of its small chapel wear the glory yet Of consecration which they took from prayers Of the first teachers, through a thousand storms Have drenched and shaken them. Forgive me, sir :' I have a patrimony which disdains Envy of yours.

Most miserable
Is the desire that's glorious: blessed be those,
How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills,
Which seasons comfort.




On knew he but his happiness, of men The happiest he who far from public rage, Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired, Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life! What though the dome be wanting, whose proud

gate, Rach morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd (of flatterers false, and in their turn abused ? Hile intercourse! What though the glittering robe, (if every hue reflected light can give, Or floating loose, or stiff with mazy gold, l'he pride and gaze of fools, oppress him not ? What though, from utmost land and sea purveyed For him each rarer tributary life Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps With luxury and death? What though his bowl Flames not with costly juice, nor sunk in beds, Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night, Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state? What though he knows not those fantastic joys T'hat still amuse the wanton, still deceiveA face of pleasure, but a heart of painT'heir hallow moments undelighted all ? Sure peace is his ; a solid life, estranged

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