Become a loathfome body, only fit
For diffolution, hurtful to the main.
Hence merchants, unimpeachable of fin
Against the charities of domeftic life,
Incorporated feem at once to lofe
Their nature; and disclaiming all regard
For mercy and the common rights of man,
Build factories with blood, conducting trade
At the fword's point, and dyeing the white robe
Of innocent commercial juftice red.
Hence too the field of glory, as the world
Mifdeems it, dazzled by its bright array,
With all its majefty of thundering pomp,
Enchanting mufic and immortal wreaths,
Is but a school, where thoughtleffness is taught
On principle, where foppery atones
For folly, gallantry for every vice.
But flighted as it is, and by the great Abandoned, and, which ftill I more regret, Infected with the manners and the modes, It knew not once, the country wins me ftill. I never framed a wifh, or formed a plan, That flattered me with hopes of earthly blifs, But there I laid the fcene. There early ftrayed
My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice
Had found me, or the hope of being free.
My very dreams were rural; rural too
The firft-born efforts of my youthful mufe,
Sportive and jingling her poetic bells,
Ere yet her ear was miftrefs of their powers.
No bard could please me but whofe lyre was tuned
To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats
Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe
Of Tityrus, affembling, as he fang,
The ruftic throng beneath his favourite beech.
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms:
New to my taste his Paradise surpaffed
The ftruggling efforts of my boyish tongue
To speak its excellence. I danced for joy.
I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age
As twice feven years, his beauties had then firft
Engaged my wonder; and admiring ftill,
And still admiring, with regret supposed
The joy half loft because not fooner found.
There too enamoured of the life I loved,
Pathetic in its praife, in its purfuit
Determined, and poffeffing it at laft
With transports, fuch as favoured lovers feel,
I ftudied, prized, and wished 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 ftill revere thee, courtly though retired;
Though ftretched at ease in Chertfey's filent bowers,
Not unemployed; and finding rich amends
For a loft world in folitude and verfe.
"Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works
Is an ingredient in the compound man,
Infused at the creation of the kind.
And, though the Almighty Maker has throughout
Difcriminated each from each, by ftrokes
And touches of his hand, with fo 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 formed
And tutored with a relish more exact,
But none without fome relish, none unmoved.
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 fwarth Indian with his belt of beads,
Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air,
The glimpse of a green pafture, 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 confoled,
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 livery the delights to wear,
Though fickly famples of the exuberant whole.
What are the cafements lined with creeping herbs,
The prouder sashes fronted with a range
Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,
The Frenchman's darling? are they not all proofs
That man, immured in cities, ftill retains
His inborn inextinguishable thirst
Of rural scenes, compenfating his lofs
By fupplemental fhifts, the beft he may?
The moft unfurnished 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&t: over-head
Sufpend their crazy boxes, planted thick,
And watered duly. There the pitcher ftands
A fragment, and the spoutlefs tea-pot there;
Sad witneffes how close-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-consoling joys And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode Of multitudes unknown; hail, rural life! Addrefs himself who will to the pursuit Of honours, or emolument, or fame; I fhall not add myself to fuch a chase, Thwart his attempts, or envy his fuccess. Some must be great. Great offices will have Great talents. And God gives to every man The virtue, temper, understanding, tafte, That lifts, him into life, and lets him fall Juft in the niche, he was ordained to fill. To the deliverer of an injured land
He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, an heart
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