YOU, who the fweets of rural life have known,

YOU,

Defpife th' ungrateful hurry of the town;

In Windfor groves your easy hours employ,
And, undisturb'd, yourself and Muse enjoy.
Thames liftens to thy ftrains, and filent flows,
And no rude wind through rustling ofiers blows;
While all his wondering nymphs around thee throng,
To hear the Syrens warble in thy fong.

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*This poem received many material corrections from the Author after it was firft published.

VOL. I.

B

But

But I, who ne'er was blefs'd by Fortune's hand,
Nor brighten'd plough-fhares in paternal land,
Long in the noify town have been immur'd,
Refpir'd its smoke, 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 scandal hung :
Friendship, for fylvan fhades, the palace flies,
Where all must yield to Interest'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 disown.
Fatigued at laft; a calm retreat I chofe,

And footh'd my harrafs'd mind with sweet repose,
Where fields, and shades, and the refreshing clime, 25
Infpire the fylvan fong, and prompt my rhyme.

My Muse shall rove through flowery meads and plains,
And deck with Rural Sports her native strains,
And the fame road ambitiously pursue,
Frequented by the Mantuan Swain and You.

'Tis not that rural sports alone invite,
But all the grateful country breathes delight;
Here blooming Health exerts her gentle reign,
And ftrings the finews of th' industrious swain.
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,

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35

When