CAN. TO I.
YOU, who the fweets of rural life have known,
Defpife th' ungrateful hurry of the town;
In Windfor groves your eafy hours employ,
And, undisturb'd, yourself and Mufe enjoy.
Thames liftens to thy ftrains, and filent flows,
And no rude wind through rustling offers blows;
While all his wondering nymphs around thee throng,
To hear the Syrens warble in thy fong.
*This poem received many material corrections from the Author after it was firft publifhed.
But I, who ne'er was blefs'd by Fortune's hand,
Nor brighten'd plough-shares in paternal land,
Long in the noify town have been immur'd,
Refpir'd its fmoke, and all its cares endur'd;
Where news and politics divide mankind,
And schemes of ftate involve th' uneafy mind;
Faction embroils the world; and every tongue
Is mov'd by flattery, or with fcandal hung:
Friendship, for fylvan fhades, the palace flies,
Where all muft yield to Intereft's dearer ties;
Each rival Machiavel with envy burns,
And Honefty forfakes them all by turns;
While calumny upon each party's thrown,
Which both promote, and both alike difown.
Fatigued at laft; a calm retreat I chofe,
And footh'd my harrafs'd mind with sweet repose,
Where fields, and fhades, and the refreshing clime, 25
Infpire the fylvan fong, and prompt my rhyme.
My Mufe fhall rove through flowery meads and plains,
And deck with Rural Sports her native ftrains,
And the fame road ambitiously pursue,
Frequented by the Mantuan Swain and You.
'Tis not that rural fports alone invite,
But all the grateful country breathes delight;
Here blooming Health exerts her gentle reign,
And ftrings the finews of th' induftrious fwain.
Soon as the morning lark falutes the day,
Through dewy fields I take my frequent way,
Where I behold the farmer's early care,
In the revolving labours of the year.
When the fresh Spring in all her state is crown'd,
And high luxuriant grafs o'erfpreads the ground,
The labourer with a bending feythe is feen,
Shaving the furface of the waving green;
Of all her native pride difrobes the land,
And meads lays waste before his fweeping hand;
While with the mounting fun the meadow glows,
The fading herbage round he loosely throws:
But, if some fign portend a lasting shower,
Th' experienc'd fwain forefees the coming hour;
His fun-burnt hands the scattering fork forfake,
And ruddy damfels ply the faving rake;
In rifing hills the fragrant harvest grows,
And spreads along the field in equal rows.
Now when the height of heaven bright Phoebus gains, And level rays cleave wide the thirsty plains, When heifers feek the shade and cooling lake, And in the middle path-way basks the snake; O lead me, guard me from the fultry hours, Hide me, ye forefts, in your closest bowers, Where the tall oak his fpreading arms entwines, And with the beech a mutual fhade combines ; Where flows the murmuring brook, inviting dreams, Where bordering hazle overhangs the streams, Whofe rolling current, winding round and round, With frequent falls makes all the wood refound; Upon the moffy couch my limbs I cast, And e'en at noon the fweets of evening taste. Here I perufe the Mantuan's Georgic strains, And learn the labours of Italian fwains;
In every page I fee new landfcapes rife,
And all Hefperia opens to my eyes,
I wander o'er the various rural toil,
And know the nature of cach different foil:
This waving field is gilded o'er with corn,
That fpreading trees with blufhing fruit adorn :
Here I furvey the purple vintage grow,
Climb round the poles, and rife in graceful row:
Now I behold the fteed curvet and bound,
And paw with reftlefs hoof the fmoking ground:
The dewlap'd bull now chafes along the plain,
While burning love ferments in every vein;
His well-arm'd front against his rival aims,
And by the dint of war his miftrefs claims:
The careful infect 'midft his works I view,
Now from the flowers exhauft the fragrant dew;
With golden treasures load his little thighs,
And fteer his diftant journey through the skies;
Some against hoftile drones the hive defend;
Others with fweets the waxen cells diftend:
Each in the toil his deftin'd office bears,
And in the little bulk a mighty foul appears.
Or when the ploughman leaves the task of day, And trudging homeward whiftles on the way; When the big-udder'd cows with patience stand, Waiting the ftroakings of the damfel's hand; No warbling cheers the woods; the feather'd choir, 95 To court kind flumbers, to the sprays retire; When no rude gale difturbs the fleeping trees, Nor afpen leaves confefs the gentleft breeze;
Engag'd in thought, to Neptune's bounds I ftray,
To take my farewell of the parting day;
Far in the deep the fun his glory hides,
A ftreak of gold the fea and sky divides:
The purple clouds their amber linings fhow,
And edg'd with flame rolls every wave below:
Here penfive I behold the fading light,
And o'er the diftant billow lofe my fight.
Now Night in filent state begins to rife,
And twinkling orbs beftrow th' uncloudy skies;
Her borrow'd luftre growing Cynthia lends,
And on the main a glittering path extends;
Millions of worlds hang in the fpacious air,
Which round their funs their annual circles fteer;
Sweet contemplation, elevates my fenfe,
While I furvey the works of Providence.
O could the Mufe in loftier ftrains rehearfe
The glorious Author of the universe,
Who reins the winds, gives the vaft ocean bounds,
And circumfcribes the floating worlds their rounds;
My foul fhould overflow in fongs of praife,
And my Creator's name infpire my lays!
As in fucceffive courfe the feafons roll,
So circling pleasures recreate the foul.
When genial Spring a living warmth beftows,
And o'er the year her verdant mantle throws,
No fwelling inundation hides the grounds,
But crystal currents glide within their bounds
The finny brood their wonted haunts forfake,
Float in the fun, and fkin along the Jake,
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