Sweet is thy reign, but fhort; the red dog-ftar Shall fcorch thy treffes, and the mower's scythe Thy greens, thy flow'rets all, Remorfelefs fhall destroy.
Reluctant fhall I bid thee then farewel;
For O, not all that Autumn's lap contains, Nor fummer's ruddiest fruits,
Can aught for thee atone,
Fair Spring! whose fimpleft promise more delights Than all their largest wealth, and thro' the heart Each joy and new born hope
With fofteft influence breathes.
DOMESTIC LOVE AND HAPPINESS.
HAPPY they! the happieft 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 fofteft power,
Perfect efteem enliven'd by defire
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 him, ungenerous, who alone, intent To blefs himself, from fordid parents buys The loathing virgin, in eternal care, Well-merited, confume his nights and days: Let barbarous nations, whofe inhuman love Is wild defire, fierce as the funs they feel; Let eastern tyrants from the light of Heaven Seclude their bofom-flaves, meanly poffefs'd Of a mere lifelefs, violated form:
While thofe whom love cements in holy faith,. And equal transport, free as nature live, Difdaining fear. What is the world to them, Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonfenfe all? Who in each other clasp whatever fair High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish; Something than beauty dearer, fhould 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 rifes round, And mingles both their graces. By degrees, The human bloffom blows; and every day, Soft as it rolls along, fhews fome new charm, The father's luftre, and the mother's bloom. Then infant reafon grows apace, and calls For the kind hand of an affiduous care. Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot,
pour the fresh inftru&tion o'er the mind, To breathe th' enlivening fpirit, and to fix The generous purpose in the glowing breaft. Oh speak the joy! ye whom the fudden tear
Surprizes often, while you look around,
And nothing ftrikes your eye but fights of bliss;
All various Nature preffing on the heart: An elegant fufficiency, content, Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, Eafe and alternate labour, useful life, Progreffive 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 confenting Spring Sheds her own rofy garland on their heads : Till evening comes at laft, ferene and mild; When after the long vernal day of life, Enamour'd more, as more remembrance fwells With many a proof of recollected love, Together down they fink in social sleep; Together freed, their gentle spirits fly To fcenes where love and blifs inimortal reign.
THE PLEASURES OF RETIREMENT.
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, whofe proud gate, Each morning, vomits out the fneaking croud Of flatterers falfe, and in their turn abus'd? Vile intercourfe! 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 infatiate table heaps With luxury, and death? What tho' his bowl Flames not with coftly juice; nor funk in beds Oft of gay care, he toffes out the night, Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state? What tho' he knows not thofe fantastic joys, That ftill amuse the wanton, ftill deceive; A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain; Their hollow moments undelighted all? Sure peace is his; a folid life, eftrang'd To disappointment, and fallacious hope: Rich in content, in Nature's bounty rich,
In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the Spring, When heaven defcends 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 sap: 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 fleep fincere Into the guiltless breaft, beneath the shade, Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay; Nor aught befides of profpect, grove, or fong, Dim grottoes, gleaming lakes, and fountain clear. Here too dwells fimple truth; plain innocence; Unfullied beauty; found unbroken youth,
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 ftill retreats, and flowery folitudes,
To Nature's voice attends, from month to month, And day to day, thro' the revolving year; Admiring, fees her in her every shape;
Feels all her fweet emotions at his heart;
Takes what the 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 foul; her genial hours He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows, And not an opening bloffom breathes, in vain. In fummer he, beneath the living fhade, Such as o'er frigid Tempe wont to wave, Or Hemus cool, reads what the Mufe, of these Perhaps, has in immortal numbers fung; Or what fhe dictates writes: and, oft an eye Shot round, rejoices in the vigorous year. When Autumn's yellow luftre gilds the world, And tempts the fickled fwain into the field, Seiz'd by the general joy, his heart diftends. With gentle throws; and, thro' the tepid gleams Deep mufing, then he best exerts his fong. Even Winter wild to him is full of blifs:
The mighty tempeft, and the hoary waste, Abrupt, and deep, ftretch'd o'er the buried earth Awake to folemn thought. At night the skies, Difclos'd, and kindled, by refining froft,
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