Thou fcorn't the city-air;
I breathe fresh gales o'er furrow'd ground,
Yet haft not thou my wishes crown'd,
O falfe! O partial fair!
I plunge into the wave;
And though with purcft hand I raise
A rural altar to thy praife,
Thou wilt not deign to fave.
Amid my well-known grove,
Where mineral fountains vainly bear
Thy boafted name, and titles fair,
Why fcorns thy foot to rove?
Thou hear'st the sportsman's claim;
Enabling him, with idle noife,
To drown the Mufe's melting voice,
And fright the timorous game.
Is thought thy foe? adieu,
Ye midnight lamps! ye curious tomes!
Mine eye o'er hills and valleys roams,
And deals no more with you.
Is it the clime you flee?
Yet, 'midft his unremitting fnows,
The poor Laponian's bofom glows;
And fhares bright rays from thee.
There was, there was a time,
When, though I fcorn'd thy guardian care,
Nor made a vow, nor faid a prayer,
I did not rue the crime.
Who then more bleft than I?
When the glad fchool-boy's task was done,
And forth, with jocund fprite, I run
To freedom, and to joy?
How jovial then the day!
What fince have all my labours found,
Thus climbing life, to gaze around,
That can thy lofs repay?
Wert thou, alas! but kind,
Methinks no frown that fortune wears,
Nor leffen'd hopes, nor growing cares,
Could fink my chearful mind.
Whate'er my ftars include;
What other breasts convert to pain,
My towering mind fhall foon difdain,
Should fcorn-Ingratitude!
Repair this mouldering cell,
And bleft with objects found at home,
And envying none their fairer doine,
How pleas'd my foul should dwell;
Temperance should guard the doors;
From room to room should memory stray,
And ranging all in neat array,
Enjoy her pleafing stores
There let them reft unknown,
The types of many a pleafing fcene:
But to preserve them bright or clean,
Is thine, fair Queen! alone.
Fitting up her LIBRARY. 1738.
H! what is fcience, what is art,
Or what the pleasure these impart ?
Ye trophies, which the learn'd pursue
Through endless fruitlefs toils, adieu!
What can the tedious tomes befow,
To foothe the miseries they fhew?
What, like the blifs for him decreed,
Who tends his flock, and tunes his reed!.
Say, wretched fancy! thus refin'd
From all that glads the fimpleft hind,
How rare that object which supplies
A charm for too difcerning eyes!
The polish'd bard, of genius vain,
Endures a deeper fense of pain:
As each invading blaft devours
The richest fruits, the faireft flowers.
Sages, with irkfome waste of time,
The fteep afcent of knowledge climb;
Then from the towering heights they scale.
Behold contentment range-the vale.
Yet why, Afteria, tell us why
We fcorn the crowd, when you are nigh;
Why then does reafon feem fo fair,
Why learning, then, deferve our care?
Who can unpleas'd your shelves behold,
While you fo fair a proof unfold
What force the brightest genius draws
From polish'd wisdom's written laws?
Where are our humbler tenets flown?
What strange perfection bids us own
That blifs with toil fome fcience dwells,
And happiest he, who most excells?
Upon a VISIT to the fame, in WINTER. 1748.
N fair Afteria's blissful plains,
Where ever-blooming fancy reigns,
How pleas'd we país the winter's day;
And charm the dull-ey'd spleen away!
No linnet, from the leaflefs bough,
Pours forth her note melodious now;
But all admire Afteria's tongue,
Nor with the linnet's vernal fong.
No flowers emit their tranfient rays:
Yet fure Afteria's wit displays
More various tints, more glowing lines,
And with perennial beauty fhines.
Though rifled groves and fetter'd streams
But ill befriend a poet's dreams:
Afteria's prefence wakes the lyre;
And well fupplies poetic fire.
The fields have loft their lovely dye;
No chearful azure decks the sky;
Yet still we bless the louring day;
Afteria fmiles-and all is gay.
Hence let the Mufe no more prefume,
To blame the winter's dreary gloom;
Accufe his loitering hours no more;
But ah their envious hafte deplore!
For foon, from wit and friendship's reign,
The focial hearth, the fprightly vein,
I go-to meet the coming year,
On favage plains, and deferts drear!
I go-to feed on pleasures flown,
Nor find the fpring my loss atone!
But 'mid the flowery fweets of May
With pride recal this winter's day.
An Irregular ODE after SICKNESS. 1749.
Melius, cum venerit ipfa, canemus."
TOO long a stranger to repofe,
At length from pain's abhorred couch I rofe,
And wander'd forth alone;
To court once more the balmy breeze,
And catch the verdure of the trees,
Ere yet their charms were flown. 'Twas from a bank with panfies gay I hail'd once more the chearful day,
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