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Sweet is thy reign, but Mort; the red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe

Thy greens, thy flow'rets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.

Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewel;
For O, not all that Autumn's lap contains,

Nor summer's ruddieft fruits,
Can aught for thee atone,

Fair Spring! whose fimplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and thro' the heart

Each joy and new born hope
With softest influence breathes.

Mrs. BARBAULD.

CH A P.'

XXVII.

DOMESTIC LOVE AND HAPPINESS.

O HAPPY they! the happiest of their kind !

Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate
Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend.
'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws,
Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind,
That binds their peace, but harmony itself,
Attuning all their passions into love;
Where friendship full exerts her foftest power,
Perfect esteem enliven’d by desire
Ineffable, and fympathy of foul ;
Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will,
With boundless confidence: for nought but love
Can answer love, and render bliss secure.

Let

Let him, ungenerous, who alone, intent
To bless himself, from fordid parents buys
The loathing virgin, in eternal care,
Well-merited, consume his nights and days :
Let barbarous nations, whose inhuman love
Is wild defire, fierce as the suns they feel;
Let eastern tyrants from the light of Heaven
Seclude their borom-Naves, meanly poffefs'd
Of a mere lifeless, violated form:
While those whom love ceinents in holy faith,
And equal transport, free as nature live,
Disdaining fear. What is the world to them,
Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all ?
Who in each other clasp whatever fair
High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish;
Something than beauty dearer, should they look
Or on the mind, or mind-illumin'd face ;
Truth, goodness, honour, harmony and love,
The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven.
Mean-time a smiling offspring rises round,
And mingles both their graces. By degrees,
The human bloffom blows; and every day,
Soft as it rolls along, shews some new charm,
The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom.
Then infant reason grows apace, and calls
For the kind hand of an asliduous care.
Delightful tak! to rear the tender thought,
To teach the young idea how to shoot,
To

pour the fresh infruction o'er the mind,
To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix
The generous purpose in the glowing breast.
Oh speak the joy ! ye whom the sudden tear

Surprizes

Surprizes often, while you look around,
And nothing strikes your eye but fights of bliss;
All various Nature pressing on the heart :
An elegant sufficiency, content,
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Ease and alternate labour, useful life,
Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven.
These are the matchless joys of virtuous love;
And thus their moments fly. The Seasons thus,
As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll,
Still find them happy; and consenting Spring
Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads :
Till evening comes at last, ferene and mild;
When after the long vernal day of life,
Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells
With many a proof of recollected love,
Together down they fink in social sleep;
Together freed, their gentle fpirits fly
To scenes where love and bliss inimortal reign.

THOMSON.

CH A P.

XXVIII.

The PLEASURES OF RETIREMENT.

O KNEW he but his happiness, of men,

The happiest he! who far from public rage,
Deep in the vale, with a choice few retir'd,
Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life.
What tho’ the dome be wanting, whose proud gate,
Each morning, vomits out the sneaking croud
Of flatterers false, and in their turn abus’d?
Vile intercourse! What tho' the glittering robe,

Of every hue reflected light can give, Or floated loose, or stiff with mazy gold, The pride and gaze of fools! oppress him not? What tho', from utmost land and fea purvey'd, For him each rarer tributary life Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps With luxury, and death? What tho' 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 tho' he knows not those fantastic joys, That still amuse the wanton, still deceive; A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain; Their hollow moments undelighted all ? Sure peace is his; a solid life, estrang'd To disappointment, and fallacious hope: Rich in content, in Nature's bounty rich, In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the Spring, When heaven descends in showers; or bends the bough When Summer reddens, and when Autumn beams; Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies Conceal'd and fattens, with the richest fap: These are not wanting; nor the milky drove, Luxuriant, fpread o'er all the lowing vale: Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams, And hum of bees, inviting sleep fincere Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade, Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay; Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song, Dim grottoes, gleaming lakes, and fountain clear. Here too dwells simple truth ; plain innocence ; Unsullied beauty; sound unbroken youth,

Patient

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Patient of labour, with a little pleas'd ;
Health ever blooming ; unambitious toil;
Calm contemplation, and poetic ease.
The
rage

of nations, and the crush of states,
Move not the man, who, from the world escap'd,
In still retreats, and flowery folitudes,
To Nature's voice attends, from month to month,
And day to day, thro' the revolving year ;
Adniring, sees her in her every shape;
Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart;
'Takes what she liberal gives, nor thinks of more.
He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting gems,
Marks the first bud, and fucks the healthful gale
Into his freshen’d soul ; her genial hours
He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows,
And not an opening blossom breathes, in vain.
In summer he, beneath the living shade,
Such as o'er frigid Tempe wont to wave,
Or Hemus cool, reads what the Muse, of these
Perhaps, has in immortal numbers sung ;
Or what she dictates writes : and, oft an eye
Shot round, rejoices in the vigorous year.
When Autumn's yellow luftre gilds the world,
And tempts the sickled swain into the field,
Seiz’d by the general joy, his heart distends.
With gentle throws; and, thro' the tepid gleams
Deep musing, then he best exerts his song.
Even Winter wild to him is full of bliss :
The mighty tempeft, and the hoary waste,
Abrupt, and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth
Awake to folemn thought. At night the skies,
Disclos'd, and kindled, by refining frost,

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