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At length he calls his kindred herd to mind, Beneath yon willows pale, whose foliage dank 'Mongst whom, of old, in fortune's happier day, Gives added freshness to the river's bank,

The subject-forest owned his lordly sway. The fisher stands, and marks upon the tide

There, if perchance, as, wandering o'er the grass, The trembling line along the current glide ; The well-known troop should near their leader pass, With mute attention, and with secret joy,

Full in the midst he goes, with humbler face, He views the bending rod, and sinking buoy. To shield his life, or hide his sad disgrace. Which watery guest has braved the sudden fate, Deluding thought! the intrusive guest they hate, Fixed to the barb that lurks beneath the bait? And shun the contact of his altered fate. The springing trout, or carp bedecked with gold, Like some fall’n prince, by summer-flattery left, Or does the perch his purpled fins unfold ?

He roams in exile, e'en of hope bereft! The silvered eel, that winds through many a maze, While fond remembrance brings upon his view Or pike voracious, on his kind that preys?

Those woods, where once the mingled charms he

Of love and glory ; when the rocks around [knew FOWLING; DEPRECATED.

Responsive rung with war or pleasure's sound ; The sportsman now the sylvan war prepares, When, like some Eastern lord, the female race And takes the deathful tube, that lightning bears ; Alternate wantoned in his proud embrace. Glanced from the level of his guiding eye,

All, all is fled ! empire, and love, and fame, Red comes the flash, and thunder follows nigh. Leave him a naked prey to death and shame. Who first is doomed to feel the leaden death? What though some youthful stag, of dauntless face, The wheeling plover, plaintive o'er the heath, Spring to his aid and take his dangerous place, Or the sweet lark, that, soaring to the skies, The veteran dogs detect the useless snare, Pierced 'midst his amorous warblo, drops and dies ? And all the thunder of the chase is near.

Thou, Muse, that oft, with Pity's softest song, Again he flies ; and with experienced wile, Hast sued for mercy to the feathered throng, And sudden bound, he breaks the track a while ; Forbear t' ennoble, in thy tuneful lay,

Then, far sequestered from the beaten way, The unmanly contest, and the inglorious fray! On every side his fearful glances stray ; Why call not vengeance on the guilty head

Backward he moves, and, as the trace is crossed, Of yon grim wolf, the country's scourge and dread ? He vainly hopes the steaming vapor lost, So shall his death a nobler meed bestow,

Till, as he listening stops, the opening throat
And flocks and fields shall bless the grateful blow. Of hounds and huntsmen swells the deathful note.

Aghast he looks, each yily art is tried,

While fears unusual o'er his senses glide ;
Hark to the horn! at whose enlivening sound

Each noise affrights, upon the breeze's breath ; The aspiring courser paws the trembling ground;

Each tree becomes a foe each foe is death ! With neck impatient draws the tightened rein,

Fatigued he quits the land; and, from the steepy side, Champs on the bit, and pants through every vein.

Plunges for refuge in the river's tide : Scared by the martial noise, that echoes far,

But fate awaits him there : the shrill-mouthed pack, The timid stag foresees the driving war.

With glowing eyes, are ardent at his back; Long time by vain irresolution pressed,

Panting with fury, and with thirst inflamed, What anxious doubts invade his laboring breast !

With deafening cries the dire repast is claimed ! Whether to trust at once to rapid flight,

Not e'en the river can their thirst assuage, Or wait with hardy front the coming fight?

For blood, and blood alone, impels their rage ! But fear at length prevails ; on wings of wind He leaves the forest and the hunt behind ;

with rein relaxed, the fiery steed

Exhausted now, no friendly shelter near,
Springs sudden forth, and gives himself to speed : His weakness turns to fury and despair.
The ardent sportsman, bending o'er his mane, Too late, alas ! his slackened nerves lament
Drives like a tempest o'er the beaten plain,

In useless wiles their hardy vigor spent. Breaks through the coppice, skims the furrowed. Why did he not attend to Valor's call, ground,

And by his deeds give honor to his fall? While clouds of dust arise, and blacken round. At bay he stands : impelled by generous fire,

The valiant only feel his quickened ire ; [cries, THE HUNTED STAG; REJECTED BY THE HERD.

Fierce 'gainst the host he springs, whose dreadful Still flies the stag, and still the greedy pack Mingled with pain, in wild confusion rise. Adhere, sagacious, to the steaming track :

What now avails his chest of ample show, Where'er his footsteps mark the sandy ground, Or stately honors that adorn his brow; There clings the nostril of the instinctive hound.

His taper legs with matchless speed endowed, How does he rue the treachery of his feet,

Beneath whose tread the herbage scarcely bowed ? That guide the savage to his dark retreat !

Tottering he falls ; and while his eyeballs reel, Beset, abandoned, and with death behind,

Big drops distil that e'en his murderers feel !


Whatever joys the sylvan scenes prepare,
Some friend be near that may that pleasure share.



With moderate heat pursue the sylvan game ; Unlike the fool, that, everywhere the same, Talks of his dogs, his horses, and the chase, And deems his mansion stained with dire disgrace, Unless of fifty stags the branching horn, In state triumphant, the proud gates adorn ; Who tedious tells the exploits of many a day, And, like the stag, his audience keeps at bay! Wouldst thou return beneath thy peaceful dome? More silent joys should decorate thy home.

Shut, then, the door upon the city guest, That, with thy game, destroys thy time and rest ; But for thy friend, in long affection tried, Adorn the room with hospitable pride ; Whether some neighbor, kinsman, or his son, Review those scenes where first their life begun. Perhaps some sire, in life's declining year, Those woods revisits, to his memory dear, In infant days that planted by his hand Now wave aloft and decorate the land. For him the groves a smiling aspect wear, And fields and flowers his transport seem to share ! Or now arrives your childhood's earliest friend, Pleased 'midst your harmless scenes his soul t' unWhere each discovers, as around he looks, (bend, His usual furniture, and favorite books. Some painter next is there, whose magic touch Each landscape doubles that you prize so much, Or else delights with skilful hand to trace The well-known features of some much-loved face. While dearest objects thus your dwelling fill, Your friends, though absent, give enjoyment still.


THE FIXE ARTS AND LITERATTRE. -THE AUTHOR. Join to the beauties of the varied field Those softer charms the Arts alone can yield. Hail ! sister Arts, that every circle grace ! What pleasure 's pure where you have not a place ? To you the Sage's sweetest hours are due, With you

his eyelids close, and wake for you : Oft, too, when all beside is veiled in night, The lamp's inspiring rays his vigils light. His boast and honor, more than treasure doar, Good fortune ye adorn, and adverse cheer ; His youth's delight, hope of his latter day, His country-guests, and friends upon the way! With you e'en exile's self a refuge grows, Crowned with mild study, virtue, and repose. Thus Tully once, when to the country driven, Forgot the wounds ungrateful Rome had given ! Thus, emulating him, D'Aguesseau wooed In Fresne's green bowers the peace of solitude ! Woe to the unfeeling souls, and flinty hearts, In fortune's sunshine that neglect the Arts ! They, in their turn, when dire misfortunes press, Leave them, without resource, to vile distress. But with their friends one common cause they make, Their rustic joys or prison's gloom partake ; Grateful with them in tedious exile roam, Console their pains or welcome them to home.

SOLITUDE ; GRATEFUL IN YOUTH. Nor summer day, nor books, nor verdant bower, Suffice me now to fill the vacant hour, Unless some friend my solitude should join, Give me his pleasures, and partake of mine. Days of my youth! when with a poet's fire I loved the Country in her worst attire, In some lone desert sought a resting-place, And for my friends, the woods and feathered race ! Enthusiast still ! my soul rejoiced to hear Full in the forest blow the tempest drear, Or midst the whirlwind mark the sturdy oak Bend to the blast, or rising from the stroke. Een when the hills their wintry horrors wore, I climbed the steep, to list the torrent's roar !

Nor to the living be the spot confined, But let the dead with thee a refuge find. Near yonder stream, where bending willows wave, Of some lost friend prepare the peaceful grave. There shall his dust more tranquil slumbers know Than 'midst the marble's monumental show. Take thou the good Helvetian for thy guide, That near some grove, or plaintive rivulet's side, His friend inters, and o'er the sacred ground Bids arbors rise, and flowers blossom round. The cherished spot he tends with fondest toil, And with its culture soothes his grief a while, In fancy breathing, from the fragrant rose, The soul of him o'er whom the flow'ret blows.



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Why shouldst thou not a safe asylum yield To those whose song has fertilized the field ? A peaceful refuge shall not Berghem gain ? A bust the Mantuan or Sicilian swain ? For me, alas ! unworthy yet to claim A place near Berghem or near Virgil's name, If chance some generous friend should deign to pay A modest homage to my sylvan lay, Let not the Poet of the Fields be found Amidst the court or city's busy round. Ye vales and uplands, cherished by my song, Grant that to you the monument belong! While o'er its head the branching poplars wave, A murmuring streamlet should its basis lave.


'T is past : now flows my blood with laggard pace, And sensual pleasures to the soul give place. The sweetest spot that fond retirement knows, If left to me alone, a desert grows.

Why, then, yon widowed dame, with pittance scant ? Yon dowerless maid, or sire that dies for want?


PRINCESS CZARTORINSKA. My vows are heard : on ancient Vistula's side, Where roamed the Sarmat once, in savage pride, Of royal stem, a fair and warlike race, That in retirement give the country grace, Amidst their bowers have taught my muse to hopo A tribute with Saint Lambert, Thomson, Pope. How shall I dare the proud distinction boast ? 'Midst names so glorious will not mine be lost? Is there, percbance, some unfrequented spot, Some distant nook, unnoticed or forgot, Far, far from Gesner, or the Mantuan bard? Hosts of the scene, for me the asylum guard. Glad shall I see you, 'midst the laughing vales, Those lessons practise which my muse details, And, while dire party's troubled waves ye break, Enrich the hamlet, and the desert deck ; Happy, should Echo from her green retreat My name, my homage, and my lays, repeat.

0! had it pleased the will of bounteous Heaven
To me some subject-hamlet to have given,
Full happy then, and worthy to be so,
Around my dome should plants and flow'rets grow ;
The richest fruits should deck the teeming soil,
But most should human faces round me smile.
Never should Famine's pale and haggard mien
Send dismal gloom athwart the happy scene.
But man should toil : the ploughshare and the spade,
And all the implements of rustic trade,
With sure reward should wait the industrious hand,
And labor banish misery from the land.

Nor that suffice : let sickness, age, and pain,
With thee a sure and ready succor gain :
Select the smallest of thy chambers vast,
Adorned with order, neat and decent taste ;
Let it, with various med'cines amply stored,
To want diseased a constant aid afford.
Sloth, that from town-fatigue his visit pays,
Your carpet, mirrors, and saloon, may praise ;
But this retreat, to goodness set apart,
Is sacred only to the feeling heart.




In town or country one great truth be known : That pleasure's best, which is not all our own. Wretched or happy, man from man receives, And lives by halves, if for himself he lives. Ye that in verdant fields no pleasure view, Learn to do good, and pleasure will ensue. Amidst the city, and its thronging host, Riches and poverty alike are lost ; But where industrious Want and slothful Pride, The castle and the cot, are side by side, A contrast sad they to the mind present, And 'gainst the wealthy rouse the indigent. Then should thy bounty cover envy's spite, Give life its balance, and misfortune right: Correct the seasons, and allow the poor That field to glean his hands have furrowed o'er ; Fill by its gifts the long, though useful, space, That into different ranks divides our race.

Oft with thy bounties, too, thy presence show, And thus enhance the blessings you bestow ; And let thy children there, with timid air, To timid want the secret offering bear : But most thy daughter, wearing on her face The first of beauties, Virtue's modest grace, Should to the wretched like an angel shine, And pay her first-fruit vows at Bounty's shrine. Thy offspring thus, with whom thy features grow, Thy mind and manners shall in image show : Their richest portion your example gives ; And, reared by you, their infant virtue lives. Ye worldly men, disgust that dearly buy, These pleasures contemplate with jealous eye.




Where canst thou else more strong example find, Than in the fields, to rouse the generous mind ? There, all around by mutual kindness live ; The beasts that graze the field its fatness give. Yon tree, that moisture from the soil receives, Gives the mother earth its dying leaves ; The mountains pour the torrent o'er the lands, That cools the air ; the air in dew expands. All gives and takes, all serves, and all enjoys ! Man's heart alone the harmony destroys !

The lowliest clown, beneath the cottage straw, By Fancy's aid, to town and state gives law. Fed by no error, or illusive pride, I ne'er aspire for nations to decide : Content with happiness in humble state, Let me the peaceful village regulate ; And, while I feel the fancied empire mine, Not to myself alone the task confine : But every power that forms the scant domain With equal efforts shall my sway maintain. Ye, for whose help I write the village-law, Instead of rules a portrait let me draw.

THE SELFISH RICH. - THE SPENDTHRIFT. Observe yon heir, that rues the treacherous die, Run o'er his forests with exacting eye.; Without a tear his rich domains betray, And, like a burthen, cast his gold away. Thy gold a burthen ? - Impudence of wealth ! Why, then, does Famine sap yon infant's health ?


Seest thou you parsonage-house, of modest site ? There lives the man of God : in holy rite

He bids the village prayers to heaven arise,
And opens all the treasure of the skies ;
He comforts want, hallows the marriage bed,
And over fruits and flowers his blessings spread ;
He teaches good, receives man from the womb,
Guides him through life, and follows to the tomb.


Forbear to choose, for this sublimer post, The man in vile intrigue and avarice lost, Who, elsewhere stern, indulgent to himself, Deserts a humble cure for abject pelf ; Whose manners base Religion's chair defile, Who to the day adapts his courtly style.

Instruct at school, and sing at chapel too ;
Foresee the changing moon and tempest dread,
And e'en in Latin once some progress made :
In learned disputes still firm and valiant found,
Though vanquished, still he scorns to quit the ground;
Whilst, wisely used to gather time and strength,
His crabbed words prolong their laggard length.
The rustics gaze around, and scarce suppose
That one poor brain could carry all he knows.
But in his school, to each neglect severe,
So much to him is learning's progress dear,
Comes he ? upon his smooth or ruffled brow
His infant tribe their destiny may know.
He nods, they part ; again, and they assemble :
Smile, if he laughs ; and if he frowns, they tremble.
He soothes or menaces, as best befits,
And now chastises, or he now acquits.
E'en when away,

his wary subjects fear,
Lest the unseen bird should whisper in his ear
Who laughs or talks, or slumbers o'er his book,
Or from what hand the ball his visage struck.




The faithful pastor, to his parish dear, Is like yon elm, that many a rolling year, Beneath its shade's hereditary reign, Has heard the gambols of the rustic train ; Whose branches green, that over time prevail, Have seen the children rise, the father fail : If counsel sage or bounty he dispense, He's to his flock another providence. What secret want escapes his searching aid ? God only knows the happy he has made. In those retreats where want, disease, and pain, Dismay, and death, their dreadful sway maintain, Does he appear? lo ! Terror takes his flight, And Death and Horror lose the power to fright. Esteemed by wealth, and by the wretched blest, He hinders guilt by aiding the distrest ; And rivals oft, with fiercest hate that burn, Meet at his table, and in peace return.

Nor distant far the birch is seen to rise --
The birch, that heeds not their imploring cries.
If chance the breeze its boughs should lightly shake,
With pale affright the puny urchins quake.
Thus, gentle Chanonat, beside thy bed, [dread ;
I've touched that tree, my childhood's friend and
That willow-tree, whose tributary spray
Armed my stern pedant with his sceptred sway.

Such is the master of the village-school :
Be it thy care to dignify his rule.
The wise man learns each rank to appreciate ;
But fools alone despise the humbler state.
In spite of pride, in office, great or low,
Be modest one, and one importance know.
Be by himself his post an honor deemed :
He must esteen himself to be esteemed.



Respect his toils ; and let your generous care His modest house, devoid of pomp, prepare. Within, by virtue's richest treasure graced ; Without, adorned with neat and simplest taste. Partake with him the produce of thy grounds ; And be his altar with thy offerings crowned. In holy league for mutual good combined, With his instructions be thy actions joined. Not Rome, triumphant o'er the world that rose, A nobler scene could to the sight disclose, Than does the village, by its reverend guide And virtuous sage relieved and edified ! The sage's bounty and the pastor's prayer Drive from the cottage misery and despair.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. Resides there not a second power here, Whose looks the rustic long has learned to fear? Descend, my muse, nor yet debate thy strain, And paint the pedant of the village train.

Nor that suffice, but let thy prudent lay | Attach due honor to his useful sway.

He cornes at length in consequential state,
And self-importance marks his solemn gait.
Read, write, and count, 't is certain he can do ;

What pleasing sights does yonder group create ! Their infant sports, their contest, and debate. Man loves to see, as ripened wisdom grows, Its fruits enrich the soil from whence it rose. But who can view, nor secret pleasure know, Life yet in bud, and manhood on the blow? 'T is then that man 's himself : no artful guise Spreads o'er his young desire its treacherous dyes. One, smarting still from chastisement severe, Docile and mild, forgets the short-lived tear ; Stung by the affront, a smile his anger charms, And to returning love his bosom warms. A second, firm alike in hate or love, No prayers appease, and no caresses move : Silent he stands, with stern and downcast eyes, And every proffered gift with scorn denies. E'en so in Cato's infant years we find The haughty firmness of his manly mind.



THE CHILD IS FATHER OF THE MAN.' - THE VARIOUS DES- Would have these comforts to the poor denied ; TINIES OP SCHOOL-CHILDREN.

These days, say they, with barren leisure joined, Amidst their pastimes, let thine eye explore By useless pleasure are from toil purloined. The sports where instinct first begins to soar ; Thus would their kindness to the poor dispense Where various talents in assemblage found,

Excess of labor for their recompense ! One turns the historian of the country round. Why shouldst thou grieve that the laborious hind A second Euclid on the dusty soil

On solemn days some relaxation find ? Draws squares and circles, which the winds despoil; Why damp his music, or the rustic lay, With charcoal pencil here a Rubens stands ; Or grudge the village-maid her neat array ? Or infant Chevert ranks his warrior bands :

Let them, at least, in recompense for pain, On yonder side, with meditating air,

Some share of life and happiness obtain. A rival Boileau, Pascal, or Molière.

Their simple mirth, encouraged still by thee, He now content through wheeling rounds to urge Even now in Fancy's perspective I see. The spinning box, that groans beneath the scourge,

Grant me, some power, a share of Teniers' skill, In future day, perhaps, with critic zeal,

To paint the pleasures which the circle fill!
Shall bid our erring bards his lashes feel !
Another, too, with Molé, Preville's skill,

Of fop or clown the mimic part may fill.

Two veterans here relate with proud delight
A Pope or Locke but wait the fostering hand Their past amours, or actions in the fight;
Of some kind friend, their genius to expand :- One tells his rank, or in what bloody fray
As yonder flower, expecting to be born,

Himself and Saxe alone had gained the day!
The solar ray, or dewy tear of morn.
He now delights, nor thinks of future fame,
To see the pebble, which his fingers aim,

Whilst Eglé near, suspended in the air,
Skim on the wave, by turns descend and rise ; Looks from the swinging cord with dizzy fear :
Or mark his kite, that flutters near the skies. The frolic zephyr through her garment blows,

That modesty is anxious to compose.
The germ of genius let your care pursue,
Should some good chance present it to your view. On yonder circle green, the reeling bowl
Reared and protected by your kindly aid,

Pursues its rival to the distant goal !
The rustic plant shall spread its rising shade ; The skilful umpire, kneeling o'er the place,
On you at length its choicest fruits bestow :

Measures the distance, and decides the space. Sweeter to him that made the sapling grow.

There, too, the elastic racquet's aid denied,

The bandied ball is tost from side to side.

Two active rivals here contend for fame ;
Nor prejudice, nor superstitious dread,

They start; shout proclaims the victor's name. Amongst the children of thy care should spread. Nor distant far the time, when all around With midnight sprites each village did abound :

On yonder side, launched on with sudden force, Each castle near its ghost or goblin knew,

The rolling ball attacks in rapid course And every hamlet had its sorcerer too;

The wooden cones, arranged along the plain, When babbling age, with long and dreary tale,

That falling oft as often rise again. Broke the soft quiet of her nursling pale :

Sometimes, with eye that marks each interval, But most, when near the nightly taper's gloom

The wary player meditates their fall : The hour of evening bade the village come, –

Long time he threatens ere the ball is thrown ; Some story sad, of midnight ghosts that spoke,

At length determines, and the nine are down. Still close and closer drew the frightened folk. Let none these fictions to thy charge rehearse, Offspring of Prejudice, and Error's nurse :

Here skilful archers draw the bending yew, But rather tell them how the reaper's care

And for their mark the trembling pigeon view. Leaves for the gleaner's want the scattered ear ; The first but glances on the fluttering wing ; Of pious duties, and the secret hand

A second takes his aim, and cuts the string ; That feeds the orphan, blasts the murderous band. But vain the pigeon's flight ; with rapid eye

A third o'ertakes him soaring to the sky; [beat, RUSTIC SPORTS AND HOLIDAYS ADVISED AND PLEADED FOR.

Wheeling through air, his blood-stained pinions While thus thy bounty bids the village live, And bring the arrow to the victor's feet. Doctrine to youth, to age assistance give ; Nor that be all ; but let some harmless joy

THE RUSTIC DANCE. The vacant hour on festivals employ.

Near yonder church, beneath the elm-tree's shade, Scarce can the muse believe that barbarous pride The village youth their meeting-place have made :



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