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Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!

Ah fields belov'd in vain!
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from you blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, father Thames (for thou hast seen

Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace,)
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which inthral?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,

Or urge the flying ball?

While some, on earnest business bent,

Their murm'ring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty ;
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry:

Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possess'd; The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast : Theirs buxom Health of rosy hue, Wild Wit, Invention ever new,

And lively Cheer, of Vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,

No care beyond to-day :
Yet see how all around them wait,
The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train; Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey the murderous band !

Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,

The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

Aud Shame that sculks behind :

Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair,

And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,

And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defiled, And moody Madness laughing wild

Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath

A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen: This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every labouring sinew strains ;

Those in the deeper vitals rage :
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,

That numbs the soul with icy hand;
And slow-consuming Age.

To each his suff'rings; all are men,

Condemn'd alike to groan, The tender for another's pain,

The unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate ? Since Sorrow never comes too late,

And Happiness too swiftly flies: Thought would destroy their paradise. No more: where ignorance is bliss,

'Tis folly to be wise.

THE

COUNTRY BOX, 1757.

BY ROBERT LLOYD, M. A.

The wealthy Cit, grown old in trade,
Now wishes for the rural shade,
And buckles to his one-horse chair
Old Dobbin, or the founder'd mare:
While wedged in closely by his side
Sits Madam, his unwieldy bride,
With Jacky on a stool before 'em,
And out they jog in due decorum.
Scarce past the turnpike half a mile,
How all the country seems to smile !

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And, as they slowly jog together,
The Cit commends the road and weather ;
While Madam dotes upon the trees,
And longs for ev'ry house she sees,
Admires its views, its situation,
And thus she opens her oration:
“ What sig

the loads of wealth
Without that richest jewel, health ?
Excuse the fondness of a wife,
Who dotes upon your precious life!
Such ceaseless toil, such constant care,
Is more than human strength can bear;
One may observe it in your face-
Indeed, my dear, you break apace;
And nothing can your health repair,
But exercise and country air.
Sir Traffic has a house, you know,
About a mile from Cheney-row :
He's a good man, indeed, 'tis true,
But not so warm, my dear, as you;
And folks are always apt to sneer-
One would not be out-done, my dear!"

Sir Traffic's name so well applied
Awak'd his brother merchant's pride;
And Thrifty, who had all his life
Paid utmost deference to his wife,
Confess'd her arguments had reason,
And by the approaching summer season

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