And we that worship him ignoble graves. Nothing is proof against the gen'ral curse The only amaranthine flow'r on earth Is virtue; th' only lasting treasure, truth. Or negligent, inquirer not a spark. What's that which brings contempt upon a book, The joy of many, and the dread of more, His name a theme for praise and for reproach?— That, while it gives us worth in God's account, Depreciates and undoes us in our own? What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy, O, friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life in rural leisure pass'd! Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets; Though many boast thy favours, and affect To understand and choose thee for their own. But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss, Ev'n as his first progenitor, and quits, Though placed in paradise, (for earth has still Some traces of her youthful beauty left) Substantial happiness for transient joy. Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse The growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest, By ev'ry pleasing image they present, Reflections such as meliorate the heart, Compose the passions, and exalt the mind; To fill with riot, and defile with blood. Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes That draw the sportsman over hill and dale, Fearless, and rapt away from all his cares; Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye; Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song, Be quell'd in all our summer-months' retreat; How many self-deluded nymphs and swains, Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves, Would find them hideous nurs'ries of the spleen, And crowd the roads, impatient for the town! They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade. Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind Cultur'd and capable of sober thought, For all the savage din of the swift pack, A corresponding tone in jovial souls! Well-one at least is safe. One shelter'd hare my care Has made at last familiar; she has lost Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. At evening, and at night retire secure To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm'd; Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. I knew at least one hare that had a friend. How various his employments, whom the world Calls idle; and who justly, in return, Esteems that busy world an idler too! Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoy'd at home, And nature in her cultivated trim Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad-— Can he want occupation who has these? |