By modern lights, from an erroneous taste, I cannot but lament thy splendid wit Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. I still revere thee, courtly though retir'd, Though stretch'd at cafe in Chertfey's filent bow'rs, 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 Discriminated each from each, by strokes 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 taste them: minds that have been
And tutor❜d with a relish more exa&,
But none without fome relish, none unmov'd.
It is a flame that dies not even there,
Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds, Nor habits of luxurious city-life,
Whatever else they smother of true worth
In human bofoms, quench it, or abate.
The yillas with which London stands begirt, Like a swarth 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 bofom of the town,
A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That footh the rich poffeffor; much confol'd That here and there some sprigs 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 she 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
That man, immur'd in cities, ftill retains
His inborn inextinguishable thirst
Of rural scenes, compenfating his lofs
By fupplemental fhifts, 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 inftin&: over-head Sufpend their crazy boxes, planted thick, And 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 cafe And contemplation, heart-consoling 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 shall not add myself to fuch a chace, Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. Some must be great. Great offices will have Great talents and God gives to ev'ry man The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, 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
To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs; To monarchs dignity, to judges fsense, To artists ingenuity and skill;
To me an unambitious mind, content In the low vale of life, that early felt A wifh for eafe and leifure, and ere long Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd.
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