Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain
Who journies homeward from a summer-day's
Long labour, why forgetful of his toils
he loiters to behold

And due repose,

The sunshine gleaming as thro' amber clouds,
O'er all the western sky! Full soon, I ween
His rude expression and untutor❜d airs,
Beyond the pow'r of language, will unfold
The form of beauty smiling at his heart,
How lovely! how commanding! But tho' Heav'n
In every breast hath sown these early seeds
Of love and admiration, yet in vain,
Without fair culture's kind parental aid,
Without enlivening suns, and genial show'rs,
And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope
The tender plant should rear its blooming head,
Or yield the harvest promis'd in its spring.
Nor yet will every soil with equal stores
Repay the tiller's labour; or attend

His will, obsequious, whether to produce
The olive or the laurel: diff'rent minds
Incline to diff'rent objects: one pursues
The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild;
Another sighs for harmony and grace,

And gentlest beauty. Hence when lightning fires
The arch of heav'n, and thunders rock the ground;
When farious whirlwinds rend the howling air,
And ocean, groaning from his lowest bed,
Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky;
Amid the mighty uproar, while below
The nations tremble, Shakespeare looks abroad
From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys
The elemental war. But Waller longs,
All on the margin of some low'ry stream
To spread his careless limbs amid the cool
Of plantain shades, and to the list'ning deer,
The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain
Resounds soft warbling, all the live-long day:
Consenting Zephyr sighs; the weeping rill
Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the groves;
And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn.
Such and so various are the tastes of men. AKENSIDE.

CHA P. XXV I.

The Pleasures arising from a cultivated imagination.

Oblest of Heav'n, whom not the languid songe

Of luxury, the Siren! not the bribes

Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant honour, can seduce to leave

Those ever blooming sweets, which from the store
Of nature, fair imagination culls

To charm th' enliven'd soul! What tho' not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the height
Of envied life; tho' only few possess
Patrician treasures or imperial state:
Yet nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler state
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marbles and the sculptur❜d gold,
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him the hand
Of autumn tinges every fertile branch

With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes-
The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure, unreprov'd. Nor then partakes
Fresh pleasure only for th' attentive mind
By this harmonious action on her pow'rs
Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft
In outward things to mediate the charm

Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home
To find a kindred order, to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,

This fair-inspir'd delight: her temper'd pow'rs
Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mein..
But if to ampler prespects, if to gaze
On nature's form, where negligent of all
These lesser graces, she assumes the port
Of that eternal Majesty that weigh'd
The world's foundations ; if to these the mind'
Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far

Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp her gen'rous pow'rs?
Would sordid policies, the barb'rous growth
Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down.
To tame pursuits,, to indolence and fear?
Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied. course
The elements and seasons: all declare
For what th' eternal Maker has ordain'd
The pow'rs of man: we feel within ourselves.
His energy divine: he tells the heart,
He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb
Of life and being;. to be great like him,
Beneficent and active. Thus the men

Whom nature's works can charm, with. God him self

Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions; act upon his plan;
And form to his, the relish of their souls.

AKENSIDE.

BOOK I V.

ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES.

WR

СНАР. I.

On Anger.

Question.

HETHER Anger ought to be suppressed entirely or only to be confined within the bounds of moderation.

THOSE who maintain that resentment is blameable only in the excess, support their opinion with such arguments as these.

:

SINCE Anger is natural and useful to man, entirely to banish it from our breast, would be an equally foolish and vain attempt for as it is difficult, and next to impossible, to oppose na— ture with success; so it were imprudent, if we had it in our power, to cast away the weapons with which she has furnish'd us for our defence.. The best armour against injustice is a proper degree of spirit, to repel the wrongs that are done, or designed againt us: but if we divest ourselves of all resentment, we shall perhaps prove too irresolute ard languid, both in resisting the attacks of injustice, and inflicting punishment upon those who have committed it. We shall therefore sink into contempt, and by the tameness of our spirit, shall invite the malicious to abuse and affront us. Nor will others

fail to deny us the regard which is due from

them, if once they think us incapable of resentment. To remain unmoved at gross injuries, has the appearance of stupidity, and will make us despicable and mean in the eyes of many who are not to be influenced by any thing but their fears. And as a moderate share of resentment is useful in its effects, so it is innocent in itself, nay often commendable. The virtue of mildness is no less remote from insensibility, on the one hand, than from fury on the other. It implies that we are angry only upon proper occasions, and in a due degree; that we are never transported beyond the bounds of decency, or indulge a deep and lasting resentment; that we do not follow, but lead our passion, governing it as our servant, not summitting ourselves to it as our master. Under these regulations it is certainly excusable, when moved only by private wrongs: and being excited by the injuries which others suffer, it bespeaks a generous mind, and deserves commendation. Shall a good man feel no indignation against injustice and barbarity? not even when he is witness to shocking instances of them? when he sees a friend basely and cruelly treated; when he observes

Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th' unworthy takes

shall he still enjoy himself in perfect tranquillity? Will it be a crime, if he conceives the least resentment? Will it not rather be somewhat criminal, if he is destitute of it? In such cases: we are commonly so far from being ashamed of our anger, as of something mean, that we are proud of it, and confess it openly, as what we count laudable and meritorious.

The truth is, there seems to be something