In hope to bask a little yet,
Juft reached it when the fun was fet.
Your hermit, young and jovial firs!
Learns fomething from whate'er occurs→→→→
And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His object chofen, wealth or fame,
Or other fublunary game,
Imagination to his view
Prefents it decked with every hue,
That can feduce him not to spare
His powers of beft exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour to expend
On fo defirable an end.
Ere long approach life's evening fhades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades;
And, earned too late, it wants the grace,
Which firft engaged him in the chase.
True, answered an angelic guide,
Attendant at the fenior's fide
But whether all the time it coft
To urge the fruitless chase be loft,
Much be decided by the worth
Of that, which called his ardour forth.
Trifles purfued, whate'er the event,
Muft caufe him shame or difcontent;
A vicious object ftill is worse,
Succefsful there he wins a curfe;
But he, whom ev'n in life's laft ftage
Endeavours laudable engage,
Is paid, at least in peace of mind,
And sense of having well defigned;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His fun precipitate descend,
A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompense his mere intent.
No virtuous wish can bear a date
Either too early or too late.
THE green-house is my fummer feat;
My fhrubs difplaced from that retreat
Enjoyed the open air;
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly fong,
Had been their mutual folace long,
Lived happy prisoners there.
They fang, as blithe as finches fing,
That flutter loofe on golden wing,
And frolic where they lift;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never miffed.
But nature works in every breaft;
Inftinct is never quite fuppreffed;
And Dick felt fome defires,
Which, after many an effort vain,
Inftructed him at length to gain
A pass between his wires.
The open windows feemed to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;
But Tom was ftill confined;
And Dick, although his way was clear, Was much too generous and fincere, To leave his friend behind.
For, fettling on his grated roof,
He chirped and kiffed him, giving proof
That he defired no more;
Nor would forfake his cage at last,
Till gently feized, I shut him faft,
A prifoner as before.
Oh ye, who never knew the joys
Of Friendship, fatisfied with noise,
Fandango, ball, and rout!
Blush, when I tell you how a bird,
A prison with a friend preferred
To liberty without.
THERE is a field, through which I often pafs,
Thick overfpread with moss and filky grafs,
Adjoining clofe to Kilwick's echoing wood,
Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,
Referved to folace many a neighbouring 'fquire,
That he may follow them through brake and briar,
Contufion hazarding of neck, or spine,
Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
A narrow brook, by rufhy banks concealed,
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;
Oaks interfperfe it, that had once a head,
But now wear crefts of oven-wood instead ;
And where the land flopes to its watery bourn,
Wide yawns a gulph befide a ragged thorn;
Bricks line the fides, but fhivered long ago,
And horrid brambles intertwine below;
A hollow fcooped, I judge in ancient time,
For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.
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