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Whose nibbling warfare on the grunter's side Is welcome pleasure to his bristly hide ;

ently he stoops, or, stretched at ease along, Enjoys the insults of the gabbling throng, That march exulting round his fallen head, As human victors trample on their dead.

THE RURAL FEAST ; ITS GUESTS. Bohold the sound oak table's massy frame Bestride the kitchen floor! the careful daine And generous host invite their friends around, While all that cleared the crop, or tilled the ground, Are guests by right of custom :

old and young, And many a neighboring yeoman, join the throng, With artisans that lent their dext'rous aid, When o'er each field the flaming sunbeams played.



TWILIGHT ; THE WESTERN SUMMER CLOUD AT EVENING. Still Twilight, welcome ! Rest, how sweet art thou! Now eve o’erhangs the western cloud's thick brow : The far-stretched curtain of retiring light, With fiery treasures fraught ; that on the sight Flash from its bulging sides, where darkness lowers, In fancy's eye, a chain of mouldering towers ; Or craggy coasts just rising into view, Midst javelins dire, and darts of streaming blue.


HOUSE-DOG. Anon tired laborers bless their sheltering home, When midnight and the frightful tempest come. The farmer wakes, and sees with silent dread The angry shafts of heaven gleam round his bed ; The bursting cloud reiterated roars, Shakes his straw roof, and jars his bolted doors : The slow-winged storm along the troubled skies Spreads its dark course ; the wind begins to rise ; And full-leafed elms, his dwelling's shade by day, With mimic thunder give its fury way : Sounds in his chimney-top a doleful peal, Midst pouring rain, or gusts of rattling hail ; With ten-fold danger, low the tempest bends, And quick and strong the sulph'rous flame descends; The frightened mastiff from his kennel flies, And cringes at the door with piteous cries.

Yet Plenty reigns, and from her boundless hoard, Though not one jelly trembles on the board, Supplies the feast with all that sense can crave ; With all that made our great forefathers brave, Ere the cloyed palate countless flavors tried, And cooks had Nature's judgment set aside. With thanks to Heaven, and tales of rustio lore, The mansion echoes when the banquet's o'er ; A wider circle spreads, and smiles abound, As quick the frothing horn performs its round ; Care's mortal foe ; that sprightly joys imparts To cheer the frame and elevate their hearts. Here, fresh and brown, the hazel's produce lies In tempting heaps, and peals of laughter rise, And crackling music, with the frequent song, Unheeded bear the midnight hour along.


Here, once a year, Distinction lowers its crest, The master, servant, and the merry guest, Are cqual all ; and round the happy ring The reaper's eyes exulting glances Aling ; And, warmed with gratitude, he quits his place, With sunburnt hands and ale-enlivened face, Refills the jug his honored host to tend, To serve at once the master and the friend ; Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale, His nuts, his conversation, and his ale.




Where now's the trifler? where the child of pride ? These are the moments when the heart is tried ! Nor lives the man with conscience e'er so clear, But feels a solemn, reverential fear ; Feels too a joy relieve his aching breast, When the spent storm hath howled itself to rest. Still, welcome beats the long-continued shower, And sleep protracted comes with double power ; Calm dreams of bliss bring on the morning sun, For every barn is filled, and Harvest done.

THE HARVEST HOME ; TRIUMPH AND GRATITUDE. Now, ere sweet Summer bids its long adieu, And winds blow keen where late the blossom grew, The bustling day and jovial night must come, The long-accustomed feast of Ilarvest-home. No blood-stained victory, in story bright, Can give the philosophic mind delight; No triumph please while rage and death destroy : Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy. And where the joy, if rightly understood, Like cheerful praise for universal good ? The soul nor check nor doubtful anguish knows, But free and pure the grateful current flows.

Such were the days, – of days long past I sing, When Pride gave place to Mirth without a sting ; Ere tyrant customs strength sufficient bore To violate the feelings of the poor ; To leave them distanced in the maddening race, Where'er Refinement shows its hated face : Nor causcless hatred ; - 't is the peasant's curse, That hourly makes his wretched station worse, Destroys life's intercourse ; the social plan That rank to rank cements, as man to man : Wealth flows around him, fashion lordly reigns ; Yet poverty is his, and mental pains !



Methinks I hear the mourner thus impart The stifled murmurs of his wounded heart : [cold ? • Whence comes this change, ungracious, irksome, Whence the new grandeur that mine eyes behold?

The widening distance which I daily see?

For home-brewed ale, neglected and debased, Has Wealth done this ?— then Wealth 's a foe to me; Is quite discarded from the realms of taste. Foe to our rights ; that leaves a powerful few Where unaffected Freedom charmed the soul, The paths of emulation to pursue :

The separate table and the costly bowl, For emulation stoops to us no more :

Cool as the blast that checks the budding Spring, The hope of humble industry is o'er ;

A mockery of gladness round them fing. The blameless hope, the cheering, sweet presage

MODERN REFINEMENTS MAKE THE FARMER'S TABLE COLD, Of future comforts for declining age.

PUNCTILIOUS, HEARTLESS. Can my sons sbare from this paternal hand

For oft the farmer, ere his heart approves, The profits with the labors of the land ?

Yields up the custom which he dearly loves : No! though indulgent Heaven its blessing deigns,

Refinement forces on him like a tide; Where's the small farm to suit my scanty means ?

Bold innovations down its current ride, CONTEXT, THE ANCIENT RESIDENT OF THE COTTAGE, CANNOT

That bear no peace beneath their showy dress, DWELL WITH WANT.

Nor add one tittle to his happiness. Content, the poet sings, with us resides ; His guests selected ; rank's punctilios known ; In lonely cots like mine the damsel hides ;

What trouble waits upon a casual frown ! And will he then in raptured visions tell

Restraint's foul manacles his pleasures maim ; That sweet Content with Want can ever dwell ? Selected guests selected phrases claim : A barley loaf, 't is true, my table crowns,

Nor reigns that joy, when hand in hand they join, That fast diminishing in lusty rounds

That good old Master felt in shaking mine. Stops Nature's cravings : yet her sighs will flow

BLESSINGS ON THE MASTER WHO GIVES TO LABOR ITS DUES. From knowing this, – that once it was not so.

Heaven bless his memory! bless his honored THE ANNUAL FESTIVAL ONLY A SHADOW OF THE PAST ; THE


(The poor will speak his lasting, worthy fame) : Our annual feast, when earth her plenty yields, To souls fair-purposed strength and guidance give : When crowned with boughs the last load quits the In pity to us still let goodness live : The aspect still of ancient joy puts on ; [fields, Let labor have its due ! my cot shall be The aspect only, with the substance gone :

From chilling want and guilty murmurs free : The self-same horn is still at our command, Let labor have its due ! — then peace is mine, But serves none now but the plebeian hand : And never, never shall my heart repine.'

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Pastoral for July.



A SHEPHERD's boy (ho seeks no better name) Led forth his flocks along the silver Thame, Where dancing sunbeams on the waters played, And verdant alders formed a quivering shade. Soft as he mourned, the streams forgot to flow, The flocks around a dumb compassion show, The Naiads wept in every watery bower, And Jove consented in a silent shower.

Accept, O Garth, the Muse's early lays, That adds this wreath of ivy to thy bays ; Hear what from Love unpractised hearts endure, From Love, the sole disease thou canst not cure.

Ye shady beeches, and yo cooling streams, Defence from Phoebus', not from Cupid's beams, To you I mourn, nor to the deaf I sing ; The woods shall answer, and their echo ring. The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay Why art thou prouder and more hard than they? The bleating sheep with my complaints agree, They parched with heat, and I inflamed by thee ; The sultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains, While in thy heart eternal winter reigns.

Where stray ye, Muses, in what lawn or grove, While your Alexis pines in hopeless love ? In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides, Or else where Cam his winding vales divides? As in the crystal spring I view my face, Fresh rising blushes paint the watery glass ; But since those graces please thy eyes no more, I shun the fountains which I sought before. Once I was skilled in every herb that grew, And every plant that drinks the morning dow; Ah, wretched shepherd, what avails thy art, To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart !

Let other swains attend the rural care, Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces shear ; But nigh yon mountain let me tune my lays, Embrace my Love, and bind my brows with bays. That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath Inspired when living, and bequeathed in death : He said — Alexis, take this pipe, the same That taught the groves my Rosalinda's name : But now the reed shall hang on yonder tree, Forever silent, since despised by thee.

0! were I made by some transforming power
The captive bird that sings within thy bower!
Then might my voice thy listening ears employ,
And I those kisses he receives enjoy.

And yet my numbers please the rural throng,
Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the song.
The Nymphs, forsaking every cave and spring,
Their early fruit and milk-white turtles bring :
Each amorous nymph prefers her gifts in vain,
On you their gifts are all bestowed again.
For you the swains the fairest flowers design,
And in one garland all their beauties join :
Accept the wreath which you deserve alone,
In whom all beauties are comprised in one.

See, what delights in sylvan scenes appear !
Descending gods have found Elysium here.
In woods bright Venus with Adonis strayed,
And chaste Diana haunts the forest shade.
Come, lovely Nymph, and bless the silent hours,
When swains from shearing seek their nightly
When weary reapers quit the sultry field, [bowers;
And crowned with corn their thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breast the serpent love abides ;
Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew,
But your Alexis knows no sweets but you.
O deign to visit our forsaken seats,
The merry fountains, and the green retreats !
Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade ;
Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade :
Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.

0, how I long with you to pass my days,
Invoke the Muses, and resound your praise !
Your praise the birds shall chant in every grove,
And winds shall waft it to the powers above.
But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain,
The wondering forests soon should dance again,
The moving mountains hear the powerful call,
And headlong streams hang listening in their fall !

But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat,
The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat ;
To closer shades the panting flocks remove ;
Ye gods ! and is there no relief for love ?
But soon the sun with milder rays descends
To the cool ocean, where his journey ends :
On me Love's fiercer flames forever prey ;
By night he scorches, as he burns by day.

Armstrong's "Art of Health."



Exough of air. A desert subject now, Rougher and wilder, rises to my sight; A barren waste, where not a garland grows To bind the muse's brow; not e'en a proud, Stupendous solitude frowns o'er the heath, To rouse a noble horror in the soul : But rugged paths fatigue, and error leads Through endless labyrinths the devious feet. Farewell, ethereal fields ! the humbler arts Of life, the table of the homely gods, Demand my song : Elysian gales, adieu !

Too soon expelled. His daily labor thaws,
To friendly chyle, the most rebellious mass
That salt can harden, or the smoke of years ;
Nor does his gorge the rancid bacon rue ;
Nor that which Cestria sends, tenacious paste
Of solid milk. But ye of softer clay,
Infirm and delicate ! and ye who waste,
With pale and bloated sloth, the tedious day !
Avoid the stubborn aliment, avoid
The full repast ; and let sagacious age
Grow wiser, lessoned by the dropping teeth.




NEWAL.- CHYLE. The blood, the fountain whence the spirits flow, The generous stream that waters every part, And motion, vigor, and warm life, conveys To every particle that moves or lives ; This vital fluid, through unnumbered tubes Poured by the heart, and to the heart again Refunded ; scourged forever round and round; Enraged with heat and toil, at last forgets Its balmy nature ; virulent and thin It grows; and now, but that a thousand gates Are open to its flight, it would destroy The parts it cherished and repaired before. Besides, the flexible and tender tubes Melt in the mildest, most nectareous tide That ripening nature rolls; as in the stream Its crumbling banks ; but what the vital force of plastic fluids hourly batters down, That very force those plastic particles Rebuild : so mutable the state of man ! For this the watchful appetite was given, Daily, with fresh materials, to repair This unavoidable expense of life, This necessary waste of flesh and blood. Hence the concoctive powers, with various art, Subdue the cruder aliments to chyle ; The chyle to blood ; the foamy purple tide To liquors, which, through finer arteries, To different parts their winding course pursue ; To try new changes, and now forms put on, Or for the public, or some private use.

Half subtilized to chyle, the liquid food Readiest obeys the assimilating powers ; And soon the tender vegetable mass Relents ; and soon the young of those that tread The steadfast earth, or cleave the green abyss, Or pathless sky. And if the steer must fall, In youth and sanguine vigor let him die ; Nor stay till rigid age, or heavy ails, Absolve him, ill requited, from the yoke. Some with high forage, and luxuriant ease, Indulge the veteran ox ; but wiser thou, From the bald mountain or the barren downs, Expect the flocks by frugal nature fed ; A race of purer blood, with exercise Refined and scanty fare ; for, old or young, The stalled are never healthy ; nor the crammed : Not all the culinary arts can tame, To wholesome food, the abominable growth Of rest and gluttony ; the prudent taste Rejects, like bane, such loathsome lusciousness.


The languid stomach curses s'en the pure Delicious fat, and all the race of oil : For more the oily aliments relax Its feeble tone ; and with the eager lymph (Fond to incorporate with all it meets) Coyly they mix, and shun with slippery wiles The wooed embrace. The irresoluble oil, So gentle late, and blandishing, in floods Of rancid bile o'erflowg : what tumults hence, What horrors rise, were nauseous to relate.


Nothing so foreign but th' athletic hind
Can labor into blood. The hungry meal
Alone he fears, or aliments too thin ;
By violent powers too easily subdued,


Choose leaner viands, ye whose jovial make Too fast the gummy nutriment imbibes : Choose sober meals ; and rouse to active life Your cumbrous clay ; nor on the enfeebling down,

Irresoluto, protract the morning hours.
But let the man whose bones are thinly clad
With cheerful ease, and succulent repast,
Improve his slender habit. Each extreme
From the blest mean of sanity departs.

The generous horse to herbage and to grain
Confines his wish; though fabling Greece resound
The Thracian steeds with human carnage wild.
Prompted by instinct's never-erring power,
Each creature knows its proper aliment;
But man,

the inhabitant of every clime,
With all the commoners of nature feeds.
Directed, bounded, by this power within,
Their cravings are well aimed : voluptuous man
Is by superior faculties misled ;
Misled from pleasure even in quest of joy.


TEMPERANCE IS TRUE LUXURY. Sated with nature's boons, what thousands seek, With dishes tortured from their native taste, And mad variety, to spur beyond Its wiser will the jaded appetite ! Is this for pleasure ? Learn a juster taste i And know that temperance is true luxury.



I could relate what table this demands, Or that complexion ; what the various powers Of various foods : but fifty years would roll, And fifty more, before the tale were done. Besides, there often lurks some nameless, strange, Peculiar thing ; nor on the skin displayed, Felt in the pulse, nor in the habit seen ; Which finds a poison in the food that most The temperature affects. There


whose blood Impetuous rages through the turgid veins, Who better bear the fiery fruits of Ind, Than the moist melon, or pale cucumber. Of chilly nature, others fly the board Supplied with slaughter, and the vernal powers For cooler, kinder sustenance implore. Some even the generous nutriment detest Which, in the shell, the sleeping embryo rears. Some, more unhappy still, repent the gifts Of Pales ; soft, delicious, and benign : The balmy quintessence of every flower, And every grateful herb that decks the Spring ; The fostering dew of tender sprouting lifo ; The best refection of declining age ; The kind restorative of those who lie Half dead, and panting, from the doubtful strife Of nature struggling in the grasp of death. Try all the bounties of this fertile globe, There is not such a salutary food As suits with every stomach.

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Or is it pride? Pursue some nobler aim. Dismiss your parasites, who praise for hire ; And earn the fair esteem of honest men, [yours, Whose praise is fame. Formed of such clay as The sick, the needy, shiver at your gates. E'en modest want may bless your hand unseen, Though hushed in patient wretchedness at home. Is there no virgin, graced with every charm But that which binds the mercenary vow? No youth of genius, whose neglected bloom, Unfostered, sickens in the barren shade ? No worthy man, by fortune's random blows, Or by a heart too generous and humane, Constrained to leave his happy patal seat, And sigh for wants more bitter than his own? There are, while human miseries abound, A thousand ways to waste superfluous wealth, Without one fool or flatterer at your board, Without one hour of sickness or disgust.




But — except, Amid the mingled mass of fish and fowl, And boiled and baked, you hesitate by which You sunk oppressed, or whether not by all Taught by experience soon you may discern What pleases, what offends. Avoid the cates That lull the sickening appetite too long, Or heave with feverish flushings all the face, Burn in the palms,and parch the roughening tongue; Or much diminish, or too much increase, Th’expense, which nature's wise economy, Without or waste or avarice, maintains. Such cates abjured, let prowling hunger loose, And bid the curious palate roam at will ; They scarce can err amid the various stores That burst the teeming entrails of the world.

But other ills the ambiguous feast pursue, Besides provoking the lascivious taste. Such various foods, though harmless each alone, Each other violate ; and oft we see What strife is brewed, and what pernicious bane, From combinations of innoxious things. Th' unbounded taste I mean not to confine To hermit's diet, needlessly severe. But would you long the sweets of health enjoy, Or husband pleasure ; at one impious meal Exhaust not half the bounties of the year, And of each realm. It matters not meanwhile How much to-morrow differ from to-day ; So far indulge : 't is fit, besides, that man, To change obnoxious, be to change inured. But stay the curious appetite, and taste With caution fruits you never tried before.



Led by sagacious taste, the ruthless king Of beasts on blood and slaughter only lives ; The tiger, formed alike to cruel meals, Would at the manger starvo : of milder feeds,

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