Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones,
And tottering empires rush by their own weight. This huge rotundity we trade grows old;
And all those worlds that roll around the sun,
The Sun himself, shall die, and antient Night Again involve the desolate abyss:
Till the great FATHER thro' the lifeless gloom Extend his arm to light another world, And bid new planets roll by other laws. For thro' the regions of unbounded space, Where unconfin'd Omnipotence has room, BEING, in various systems, fluctuates still Between creation and abhor'd decay : It ever did; perhaps and ever will.
New worlds are still emerging from the deep; The old descending, in their turns to rise.
HRO' various toils th' adventurous Muse has past ;
But half the toil, and more than half, remains.
Rude is her theme, and hardly fit for Song; Plain and of little ornament; and I
But little practis'd in th' Aonian arts,
Yet not in vain such labours have we tried,
If aught these lays the fickle health confirm. To you, ye delicate, I write; for you I tame my youth to philosophic cares, And grow still paler by the midnight lamps. Not to debilitate with timorous rules A hardy frame; nor needlessly to brave Unglorious dangers, proud of mortal strength; Is all the lesson that in wholesome years Concerns the strong. His care were ill bestow'd Who would with warm effeminacy nurse The thriving oak which on the mountain's brow Bears all the blasts that sweep the wintry heav'n,
Behold the labourer of the glebe who toils In dust, in rain, in cold and sultry skies: Save but the grain from mildews and the flood, Nought anxious he what sickly stars ascend. He knows no laws by Esculapius given; He studies none. Yet him nor midnight fogs Infest, nor those envenom'd shafts that fly When rapid Sirius fires the autumnal noon. His habit pure with plain and temperate meals, Robust with labour, and by custom steel'd
To every casualty of varied life ;* Serene he bears the peevish eastern blast And uninfected breathes the mortal south.
Such the reward of rude and sober life; Of labour such. By health the peasant's toil Is well repaid; if exercise were pain
Indeed, and temperance pain. By arts like these Laconia nurs'd of old her hardy sons;
And Rome's unconquer'd legions urg'd their way,
Unhurt, through every toil in every clime.
Toil, and be strong. By toil the flaccid nerves Grow firm, and gain a more compacted tone; The greener juices are by toil subdu'd, Mellow'd, and subtilis'd; the vapid old Expell'd, and all the rancour of the blood. Come, my companions, ye who feel the charms Of nature and the year; come, let us stray Where chance or fancy leads our roving walk: Come, while the soft voluptuous breezes fan The fleecy heavens, enwrap the limbs in balm, And shed a charming langour o'er the soul. Nor when bright Winter sows with prickly frost The vigorous ether, in unmanly warmth Indulge at home; nor even when Eurus' blasts This way and that convolve the lab'ring woods. My liberal walks, save when the skies in rain Or fogs relent, no season should confine Or to the cloister'd gallery or arcade:
Go, climb the mountain; from th' ethereal source Imbibe the recent gale. The cheerful morn
Beams o'er the hills; go, mount th' exulting steed.
Already, see, the deep-mouth'd beagles catch The tainted mazes; and, on eager sport
Intent, with emulous impatience try Each doubtful trace. Or, if a nobler prey
Delight you more, go chase the desperate deer; And through its deepest solitude awake The vocal forest with the jovial horn.
But if the breathless chase o'er hill and dale
Exceed your strength; a sport of less fatigue, Not less delightful, the prolific stream Affords. The crystal rivulet, that o'er A stony channel rolls its rapid maze
Swarms with the silver fry. Such, thro' the bounds Of pastoral Stafford, runs the brawling Trent; Such Eden, sprung from Cumbrian mountains; such The Esk, o'erhung with woods; and such the stream On whose Arcadian banks I first drew air, Liddal; till now, except in Doric lays
Tun'd to her murmurs by her love-sick swains, Unknown in song: though not a purer stream,
Thro' meads more flowery, or more romantic groves, Roll's toward the western main. Hail, sacred flood! May still thy hospitable swains be blest
In rural innocence; thy mountains still
Teem with the fleecy race; thy tuneful woods For ever flourish; and thy vales look gay
With painted meadows, and the golden grain!
Oft, with thy blooming sons, when life was new Sportive and petulant, and charni'd with toys, In thy transparent eddies have I lav'd :
Oft trac'd with patient steps thy fairy banks, With the well-imitated fly to hook
The eager trout, and with the slender line
And yielding rod solicit to the shore
The struggling, panting prey: while vernal clouds And tepid gales obscur'd the ruffled pool,
And from the deeps call'd forth the wanton swarms.
Form'd on the Samian school, or those of Ind,
There are who think these pastimes scarce humane. Yet in my mind (and not relentless I)
His life is pure that wears no fouler stains.
But if, thro' genuine tenderness of heart,
Or secret want of relish for the game,
You shun the glories of the chase, nor care
To haunt the peopled stream; the garden yields
A soft amusement, an humane delight.
To raise th' insipid nature of the ground;
Or tame its savage genius to the grace
Of careless sweet rusticity, that seems
The amiable result of happy chance,
Is to create; and gives a god-like joy,
Which every year improves. Nor thou disdain To check the lawless riot of the trees, To plant the grove, or turn the barren mould. O happy he! whom, when his years decline, (His fortune and his fame by worthy means Attain'd, and equal to his moderate mind;
His life approv'd by all the wise and good, Even envied by the vain) the peaceful groves Of Epicurus, from this stormy world, Receive to rest; of all ungrateful cares Absolv'd, and sacred from the selfish crowd. Happiest of men! if the same soil invites A chosen few, companions of his youth, Once fellow-rakes perhaps, now rural friends; With whom, in easy commerce, to pursue Nature's free charms, and vie for sylvan fame : A fair ambition; void of strife or guile, Or jealousy, or pain to be outdone.
Who plans th' enchanted garden, who directs The visto best, and best conducts the stream; Whose groves the fastest thicken and ascend; Who first the welcome spring salutes; who shews The earliest bloom, the sweetest proudest charms Of Flora; who best gives Pomona's juice To match the sprightly genius of Champaign. Thrice happy days! in rural business past; Blest winter nights! when, as the genial fire Cheers the wide hall, his cordial family With soft domestic arts the hours beguile, And pleasing talk that starts no timorous fame, With witless wantoness to hunt it down: Or through the fairy-land of tale or song Delighted, wander, in fictitious fates Engag'd, and all that strikes humanity : Till lost in fable, they the stealing hour Of timely rest forget. Sometimes, at eve, His neighbours lift the latch, and bless unbid His festal roof; while, o'er the light repast, And sprightly cups, they mix in social joy; And, thro' the maze of conversation trace Whate'er amuses or improves the mind. Sometimes at eve (for I delight to taste The native zest and flavour of the fruit,
Where sense grows wild and takes of no manure) The decent, honest, cheerful husbandman Should drown his labour in my friendly bowl; And at my table find himself at home.
Whate'er you study, in whate'er you sweat, Indulge your taste. Some love the manly foils; The tennis some; and some the graceful dance. Others, more hardy, range the purple heath, Or naked stubble; where from field to field
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