And still admiring, with regret suppos'd
The foy half loft because not sooner found.
Thee too, enamour'd of the life I lov'd,
Pathetic in its praife, in its purfuit
Determin'd, and poffeffing it at last

With transports such as favour'd lovers feel,
Iftudied, priz'd, and wish'd that I had known,
Ingenious Cowley! and though now reclaimed,
By modern lights, from an erroneous taste,
I cannot but lament thy fplendid wit
Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools.
I still revere thee, courtly though retir'd,
Though stretch'dat ease in Chertsey's filent bowr's,
Not unemploy'd, and finding rich amends

For a loft world in folitude and verse..

"Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works Is an ingredient in the compound, man, Infus'd at the creation of the kind..

And though th' Almighty Maker has throughout
Difcriminated each from each, by ftrokes

And touches of his hand, with so much art
Diverfified, that two were never found
Twins at all points—yet this obtains in all,
That all difcern a beauty in his works,

And all can tafte them: minds that have been

form'd

And tutor'd with a relish more exact,

But

But none without some relish, none unmov❜d.
It is a flame that dies not even there,

Where nothing feeds it: neither bufinefs, crowds,
Nor habits of luxurious city-life,

Whatever else they smother of true worth
In human bofoms, quench it, or abate.
The villas with which London ftands begirt,
Like a fwart Indian with his belt of beads,
Prove it. A breath of unadult'rate air,
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer
The citizen, and brace his languid frame !
Ev'n in the ftifling bosom of the town,

A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms
That footh the rich poffeffor; much confol'd
That here and there fome fprigs of mournful mint,
Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well
He cultivates. Thefe ferve him with a hint
That Nature lives; that fight-refreshing green
Is ftill the liv'ry the delights to wear,

Though fickly famples of th' exub'rant whole.
What are the casements lin❜d with creeping herbs,
The prouder fafhes fronted with a range

Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed The Frenchman's darling? Are they not all proofs

That man, immur'd in cities, ftill retains

His inborn inextinguifhable thirst

Of rural fcenes, compenfating his lofs By fupplemental shifts, the best he may? The most unfurnish'd with the means of life, And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds To range the fields and treat their lungs with air, Yet feel the burning instinct: over-head Sufpend their crazy boxes, planted thick, Aud water'd duly. There the pitcher stands A fragment, and the fpoutlefs tea-pot there; Sad witneffes how clofe-pent man regrets The country, with what ardour he contrives A peep at nature, when he can no more.. Hail, therefore, patronefs of health and ease And contemplation, heart-folacing joys And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abode Of multitudes unknown! hail, rural life! Addrefs himself who will to the pursuit Of honors, or emolument, or fame, I fhall not add myself to fuch a chafe, Thwart his attempts, or envy his fuccefs.

Some must be great. Great offices will have
Great talents; and God gives to ev'ry man
The virtue, temper, understanding, tafte,
That lifts him into life, and lets him fall
Juft in the niche he was ordain'd to fill.
To the deliv❜rer of an injur'd land
He gives a tongue t' enlarge upon, an heart

Το

To feel, and courage to redrefs her wrongs;
To monarchs dignity, to judges fense,
To artists ingenuity and skill;

To me an unambitious mind, content
In the low vale of life, that early felt

A with for eafe and leisure, and ere long

Found here that leisure and that ease I wish d.