Engag'd my wonder; and admiring still, Determin'd, and possessing it at last With transports, such as favour'd lovers feel, I still revere thee, courtly though retir'd; 720 Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silent bow'rs, Not unemploy'd; and finding rich amends For a lost world in solitude and verse. 730, "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 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, 741 Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds, Whatever else they smother of true worth The villas, with which London stands begirt, The citizen, and brace his languid frame! Ev'n in the stifling bosom of the town A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms, 750 That sooth the rich possessor; much consol❜d, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, He cultivates. These serve him with a hint, 760 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 darling1? are they not all proofs, That man, immur'd in cities, still retains Of rural scenes, compensating his loss By supplemental shifts, the best he may? The most unfurnish'd with the means of life, 770 And they, that never pass their brick-wall bounds, To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air, Yet feel the burning instinct: over head 1 Mignonnette. Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick, And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands Hail, therefore, patroness of health, and ease, 780 And contemplation, heart-consoling joys And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abode Of multitudes unknown; hail, rural life! I shall not add myself to such a chase, 790 To the deliv'rer of an injur'd land He gives a tongue t' enlarge upon, a heart 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. 801 |