.

Engag'd my wonder; and, admiring still,
And still admiring, with regret suppos'd
The joy half lost because not sooner found.
There, too, enamour'd of the life I lov'd,
Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit

Determin'd, and possessing it at last

With transports such as favour'd lovers feel,
I studied, priz'd, and wish'd that I had known,
Ingenious Cowley! and, though now reclaim'd
By modern lights from an erroneous taste,
I cannot but lament thy splendid wit
Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools.

still revere thee, courtly though retir'd;

Though stretch'dat ease in Chertsey's silent bow'rs, Not unemploy'd; and finding rich amends

For a lost world in solitude 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
Diversified, that two were never found

Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all,
That all discern a beauty in his works,

And all can taste them: minds that have been form'd

And tutor'd, with a relish more exact,

But none without some 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 bosoms; quench it, or abate.
The villas 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 stifling bosom of the town,

A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms

That soothe the rich possessor; much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,

Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well

He cultivates. These serve him with a hint
That nature lives; that sight-refreshing green
Is still the liv'ry she delights to wear,
Though sickly samples of th' exub'rant whole.
What are the casements lin'd 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, immur'd in cities, still retains
His inborn intextinguishable thirst

Of rural scenes, compensating his loss
By supplemental shifts, the best he may?

The most unfurnish'd with the means of life,

And they that never pass'd their brick-wall bounds

To

range the fields and treat their lungs with air,

Yet feel the burning instinct: over head

* Mignonette.

Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick,

And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands
A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there;
Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets

The country, with what ardour he contrives

A

peep at nature, when he can no more.

Hail, therefore, patroness of health, and ease, And contemplation, heart-consoling joys

And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abode
Of multitudes unknown! hail, rural life!
Address himself who will to the pursuit
Of honours, or emoluments, or fame;

I shall not add myself to such a chase,
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
Just 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 sense;
To artists ingenuity and skill;

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

A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long

Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd.