From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes,
Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day,
A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes.
Some shout him, and some hang upon his car,
To gaze in's eyes, and bless him. Maidens wave
Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy: 700
While others, not so satisfied, unhorse

The gilded equipage, and turning loose

His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve.

Why? what has charm'd them? Hath he sav'd

the state?

No. Doth he purpose it's salvation? No.

Enchanting novelty, that moon at full,

That finds out ev'ry crevice of the head,

That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs

Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near,

And his own cattle must suffice him soon.

Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise,

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And dedicate a tribute, in it's use

And just direction sacred, to a thing

Doom'd to the dust, or lodg'd already there.

Encomium in old time was poet's work;

But poets, having lavishly long since

Exhausted all materials of the art,

The task now falls into the public hand;
And I, contented with an humbler theme,
Have pour'd my stream of panegyric down

The vale of nature, where it creeps, and winds
Among her lovely works with a secure
And unambitious course, reflecting clear,
If not the virtues, yet the worth, of brutes.
And I am recompens'd, and deem the toils
Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine

May stand between an animal and wo,
And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.

The

groans of nature in this nether world, Which Heav'n has heard for ages, have an end. Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung,

Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp,

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The time of rest, the promis'd sabbath, comes.
Six thousand years of sorrow have wellnigh
Fulfill'd their tardy and disastrous course
Over a sinful world; and what remains

Of this tempestuous state of human things
Is merely as the working of a sea

Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest:

For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds

The dust, that waits upon his sultry march,

When sin hath mov'd him, and his wrath is hot,

Shall visit Earth in mercy; shall descend
Propitious in his chariot pav'd with love;

And what his storms have blasted and defac'd
For man's revolt shall with a smile repair.

Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet
Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch:
Nor can the wonders it records be sung
To meaner music, and not suffer loss.

But when a poet, or when one like me,

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Happy to rove among poetic flow'rs,

Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last
On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair,
Such is the impulse and the spur he feels,
To give it praise proportion'd to it's worth,
That not t' attempt it, arduous as he deems
The labour, were a task more arduous still.

O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, Scenes of accomplish'd bliss; which who can see, Though but in distant prospect, and not feel 761 His soul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy? Rivers of gladness water all the Earth,

And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field

Laughs with abundance; and the land, once lean, Or fertile only in it's own disgrace,

Exults to see it's thistly curse repeal'd.

The various seasons woven into one,

And that one season an eternal spring,

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The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence, For there is none to covet, all are full.

The lion, and the libbard, and the bear

Graze with the fearless flocks; all bask at noon Together, or all gambol in the shade

Of the same grove, and drink one common stream.
Antipathies are none. No foe to man

Lurks in the serpent now: the mother sees,
And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand
Stretch'd forth to dally with the crested worm, 780

To stroke his azure neck, or to receive

The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue.

All creatures worship man, and all mankind

One Lord, one Father. Errour has no place:

That creeping pestilence is driv'n away;

The breath of Heav'n has chas'd it. In the heart

No passion touches a discordant string,

But all is harmony and love. Discase

Is not: the pure and uncontaminate blood

Holds it's due course, nor fears the frost of age.

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