"How shall I woo thee, matchless fair! Thine ardent votary bring, And bless his hours, and bid them move Serene, on silent wing? "Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind With dreams of former days, When in the lap of Peace reclined, He framed his infant lay; When Fancy roved at large, nor Care Nor envy with malignant glare His simple youth hath harmed. 'Twas then, O Solitude! to thee His early vows were paid, From heart sincere, and warm and free, Devoted to the shade. Ah, why did Fate his steps decoy In stormy paths to roam, Remote from all congenial joy ! O take the wanderer home. "Thy shades, thy silence now be mine, Thy charms my only theme; My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine "O, while to thee the woodland pours Its wildly warbling song, And balmy from the bank of flowers No ray from Grandeur's gilded car "But if some pilgrim through the glade For he of joys divine shall tell, That wean from earthly wo, And triumph o'er the mighty spell That chains his heart below. "For me no more the path invites Ambition loves to tread: No more I climb those toilsome heights, By guileful Hope misled; Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more RURAL CONTENT. BY HAMMOND. LET others boast their heaps of shining gold, crowned, Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold, And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound. While calmly poor I trifle life away, Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire, No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, But cheaply blest, I'll scorn each vain desire. With timely care I'll sow my little field, And plant my orchard with its master's hand, Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield, Or range my sheaves along the sunny land. If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam, I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb, Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home, And not a little chide its thoughtless dam. What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, Or if the sun in flaming Leo ride, By shady rivers indolently stray, And with my Delia, walking side by side, What joy to wind along the cool retreat, Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream, OF MYSELF. BY COWLEY. THIS only grant me, that my means may lie Not from great deeds, but good alone; Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depend", Not on the number, but the choice, of friends. Books should, not business, entertain the light, My garden painted o'er With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield Horace might envy in his Sabine field. Thus would I double my life's fading space; These unbought sports, this happy state, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Cease then, nor order imperfection name : Secure to be as bless'd as thou canst bear. Pope. |