With youthful fmiles, defcends toward the grave
Sprightly, and old almost without decay.
Like a coy maiden, ease, when courted most,
Fartheft retires-an idol, at whose shrine
Who oft'neft facrifice are favour'd leaft.
The love of nature, and the scene she draws,
Is nature's dictate. Strange! there fhould be found,
Who, felf-imprifon'd in their proud faloons,
Renounce the odours of the open field
For the unfcented fictions of the loom;
Who, fatisfied with only pencil'd scenes,
Prefer to the performance of a God
Th' inferior wonders of an artist's hand!
Lovely indeed the mimic works of art;
But nature's works far lovelier. I admire-
None more admires-the painter's magic skill,
Who shows me that which I fhall never fee,
Conveys a diftant country into mine,
And throws Italian light on English walls:
But imitative ftrokes can do no more
Than please the eye-sweet nature ev'ry sense.
The air falubrious of her lofty hills.
The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales,
And mufic of her woods-no works of man
May rival thefe; thefe all befpeak a pow'r
Peculiar, and exclufively her own.
Beneath the open fky fhe fpreads the feaft;
'Tis free to all-'tis ev'ry day renew'd;
Who fcorns it starves deservedly at home.
He does not fcorn it, who, imprifon'd long
In fome unwholefome dungeon, and a prey
To fallow fickness, which the vapours, dank
And clammy, of his dark abode have bred,
Escapes at last to liberty and light:
His cheek recovers foon its healthful hue;
His eye relumines its extinguifh'd fires;
He walks, he leaps, he runs-is wing'd with joy,
And riots in the sweets of ev'ry breeze.
He does not fcorn it, who has long endur'd
A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.
the mariner, his blood inflam'd
With acrid falts; his very heart athirst
Το gaze at nature in her green array,
Upon the fhip's tali fide he ftands, poffefs'd
With vifions prompted by intenfe defire:
Fair fields appear below, fuch as he left
Far diftant, fuch as he would die to find-
He feeks them headlong, and is seen no more,
The fpleen is feldom felt where Flora reigns; The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown,
And fullen fadness, that o'ershade, distort,
And mar, the face of beauty, when no caufe
For fuch immeafurable woe appears,
Thefe Flora banishes, and gives the fair
Sweet fmiles, and bloom lefs tranfient than her own. It is the conftant revolution, ftale
And tastelefs, of the fame repeated joys,
That palls and fatiates, and makes languid life
A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down.
Health fuffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart
Recoils from its own choice-at the full feaft
Is famifh'd-finds no mufic in the fong,
No fmartness in the jeft; and wonders why.
Yet thousands ftill defire to journey on,
Though halt, and weary of the path they tread.
The paralytic, who can hold her cards,
But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand
To deal and fhuffle, to divide and fort,
Her mingled fuits and fequences; and fits,
Spectatrefs both and fpectacle, a fad
And filent cypher, while her proxy plays.
Others are dragg'd into the crowded room
Between fupporters; and, once feated, fit,
Through downright inability to rife,
Till the ftout bearers lift the corpfe again.
These speak a loud memento.
Yet ev❜n thefe
Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he
That overhangs a torrent to a twig.
They love it, and yet loath it; fear to die,
Yet fcorn the purposes for which they live.
Then wherefore not renounce them? No-the dread,
The flavifh dread of folitude, that breeds
Reflection and remorfe, the fear of fhame,
And their invet'rate habits, all forbid.
Whom call we gay? That honour has been long The boast of mere pretenders to the name. The innocent are gay-the lark is gay, That dries his feathers, faturate with dew, Beneath the rofy cloud, while yet the beams Of day-fpring overshoot his humble nest. The peasant too, a witness of his fong, Himself a fongfter, is as gay as he.
But fave me from the gaiety of thofe
Whofe head-aches nail them to a noon-day bed;
And fave me too from theirs whofe haggard eyes
Flafh defperation, and betray their pangs
For property ftripp'd off by cruel chance;
From gaiety that fills the bones with pain,
The mouth with blafphemy, the heart with woe.
The earth was made fo various, that the mind
Of defultory man, ftudious of change,
And pleas'd with novelty, might be indulg’d.
Profpects, however lovely, may be seen
Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight,
Too well acquainted with their fmiles, slides off,
Faftidious, feeking lefs familiar fcenes,
Then fnug enclosures in the fhelter'd vale,
Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,
Delight us; happy to renounce awhile,
Not fenfelefs of its charms, what still we love,
That fuch short abfence may endear it more.
Then forefts, or the favage rock, may please,
That hides the fea mew in his hollow clefts
Above the reach of man. His hoary head,
Confpicuous many a league, the mariner,
Bound homeward, and in hope already there,
Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist
A girdle of half-wither'd fhrubs he shows,
And at his feet the baffled billows die.
The common, overgrown with fern, and rough
With prickly gorfe, that, fhapeless and deform'd,
And dang❜rous to the touch, has yet its bloom,
And decks itself with ornaments of gold,
Yields no unpleafing ramble; there the turf
Smells fresh, and, rich in odorif 'rous herbs
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