The longer I heard, Lesteem'd
The work of my fancy the more,
And ev❜n to myself never seem'd
So tuneful a poet before.
Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year,.
Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here;
For the clofe-woven arches of limes,
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are fweeter to her many times
Than all that the city can fhow,
So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging tafte from above,
Then, whether embellish'd or rude,
'Tis nature alone that we love.
The atchievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and vallies diffuse
A lafting, a facred delight.
Since then in the rural recefs
Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it ftill be her lot to possess,
The scene of her fenfible choice?
To inhabit a manfion remote
From the clatter of street-pacing fteeds,
And by Philomel's annual note,
To measure the life that fhe leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home, And with scenes that new rapture inspire
As oft as it fuits her to roam,
She will have just the life the prefers,
With little to wifh or to fear,
And ours will be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
TRUCE to thought! and let us o'er the fields,
Across the down, or thro' the fhelving woods,
Wind our uncertain way. Let fancy lead,
And be it ours to follow, and admire,
As well we may, the graces infinite
Of nature. Lay afide the fweet resource
That winter needs, and may at will obtain,
Of authors chafte and good, and let us read
The living page, whose ev'ry character
Delights, and gives us wisdom. Not a tree,
A plant, a leaf, a bloffom, but contains
A folio volume. We may read and read
And read again, and ftill find fomething new,
Something to please and something to inftruct,
E'en in the noisome weed. See, ere we pass
Alcanor's threshold, to the curious eye
A little monitor prefents her page
Of choice inftruction, with her fnowy bells,
The lily of the vale. She nor affects
The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day fun :
She to no state or dignity aspires,
But filent and alone puts on her fuit,
And sheds her lafting perfume, but for which
We had not known there was a thing sweet
Hid in the gloomy fhade. So when the blast
Her fifter tribes confounds, and to the earth
Stoops their high heads that vainly were expos'd,
She feels it not, but flourishes anew,
Still fhelter'd and fecure. And fo the ftorm
That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak,
The humble lily fpares. A thousand blows
That shake the lofty monarch on his throne,
We leffer folks feel not.
Advancement often brings. To be fecure,
Be humble; to be happy, be content.
But come, we loiter. Pafs unnotic'd by
The fleepy crocus, and the ftaring daify,
The courtier of the fun. What fee we there ?
The love-fick cowflip, that her head inclines
To hide a bleeding heart. And here's the meek
And fofted-eyed primrofe. Dandelion this,
A college youth that flashes for a day
All gold; anon he doffs his gaudy fuit,
Touch'd by the magic hand of fome grave Bishop,
And all at once, by commutation ftrange,
Becomes a Reverend Divine.
The melancholy hyacinth, that weeps
All night, and never lifts an eye all day,
How gay this meadow-like a gamefome boy
New cloth'd, his locks fresh comb'd and powder'd, he
All health and spirits. Scarce fo many ftars
Shine in the azure canopy of heav'n,
As king-cups here are scatter'd, interspers'd
With filver daifies.
See, the toiling swain
With many a sturdy stroke cuts up at last
The tough and finewy furze. How hard he fought
To win the glory of the barren waste.
For what more noble than the vernal furze
With golden baskets hung? Approach it not,
For ev'ry bloffom has a troop of swords,
Here they nightly meet
Each with a burnish'd king-cup in his hand,
And quaff the fubtile ether. Here they dance
Or to the village chimes, or moody fong
Of midnight Philomel. The ringlet fee
Fantastically trod. There, Oberon
His gallant train leads out, the while his torch
The glow-worm lights and dusky night illumes.
And there they foot it featly round, and laugh.
The facred spot the fuperftitious ewe
Regards, and bites it not in reverence.
Anon the drowsy clock tolls One-the cock
His clarion founds-the dance breaks off-the lights
Are quench'd—the music hush'd—they speed away
Swifter than thought, and still the break of day
Outrun, and chafing midnight as she flies
Pursue her round the globe. So Fancy weaves
Her flimfy web, while fober reason fits,
And fmiling wonders at the puny work,
A net for her; then fprings on eagle wing,
Conftraint defies, and foars above the fun.
But mark with how peculiar grace, yon wood
That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze
Her fea of leaves; thither we turn our steps,
And by the way attend the chearful found
Of woodland harmony that always fills
The merry vale between. How fweet the fong
Day's harbinger attunes! I have not heard
Such elegant divifions drawn from art.
And what is he that wins our admiration ?
A little fpeck that floats upon the fun-beam.
What vaft perfection cannot nature crowd
Into a puny point! The nightingale,
Her folo anthem fung, and all that heard
Content, joins in the chorus of the day.
She, gentle heart, thinks it no pain to please,
Nor, like the moody songsters of the world,
Juft fhews her talent, pleases, takes affront,
And locks it up in envy.
I love to fee the little goldfinch pluck
The groundfil's feather'd feed, and twit and twit;
And then in bow'r of apple bloffoms perch'd,
Trim his gay fuit, and pay us with a song.
I would not hold him pris'ner for the world.
The chimney-haunting swallow too, my eye And ear well pleases. I delight to fee
|