To fill the madding crowd's perverted mind,
With penfions, taxes, marriages, and Jews,
Or fhut the gates of heaven on loft mankind,
And wreft their darling hopes, their future views.
Far from the giddy crowds tumultuous ftrife,
Their wishes yet have never learn'd to stray;
Content and happy in a fingle life,
They keep the noifelefs tenor of their way.
E'en now, their books from cobwebs to protect,
Inclos'd by doors of glafs in Doric flile,
On polish'd pillars rais'd, with bronzes deckt,
They claim the paffing tribute of a finile.
Oft are the authors' names, though richly bound,
Mif-fpelt by blundering binders' want of care,
And many a catalogue is ftrew'd around,
To tell th' admiring guest what books are there.
For who, to thoughtlefs ignorance a prey,
Neglects to hold fhort dalliance with a book*?
Who there but wishes to prolong his stay,
And on those cafes caft a lingering look ?
Reports, attract the lawyer's parting eyes,
Novels, Lord Fopling and Sir Plume require;
For Songs and Plays the voice of Beauty cries,
And Senfe and Nature Grandifon defire.
A friend, a book, the ftealing hours fecure
And mark them down for wisdom.
For thee, who, mindful of thy lov'd compeers,
Do'ft in thefe lines their artlefs tale relate,
If chance, with prying search, in future years,
Some antiquarian fhould enquire thy fate;
Haply fome friend may shake his hoary head,
And fay, Each morn unchill'd by frofts he ran,
With hose ungarter'd, o'er yon turfy bed,
To reach the chapel ere the pfalms began;
There, in the arms of that lethargic chair
• Which rears its old moth-eaten back so high,
At noon he quaff'd three glaffes to the fair,
• And por❜d upon the news with curious eye.
Now by the fire engag'd in ferious talk,
• Or mirthful converfe, would he loitering stand; Then in the garden chofe a funny walk,
• Or launch'd the polifh'd bowl with fleady hand*.
• One morn we mifs'd him at the hour of
prayer, Nor in the hall, nor on his favourite green; Another came; nor yet within the chair, • Nor yet at bowls or chapel was he seen.
*This alludes to his fondness for playing at BOWLS, an amufing and manly exercife, conducive both to health and vigour of body, as well as a pleafing relaxation to the mind.
The next we heard that, in a neighbouring thire,
That day to church he led a blushing bride;
A nymph whofe fnowy veft and maiden fear
Improv'd her beauty while the knot was ty'd.
Now, by his patron's bounteous care remov❜d,
He roves enraptur'd through the fields of Kent;
Yet, ever mindful of the place he lov'd,
Read here the letter which he lately fent.'
IN rural innocence fecure I dwell,
Alike to fortune and to fame unknown;
Approving confcienee chears my humble cell,
And focial quiet marks me for her own.
Next to the bleffings of religious truth,
Two gifts my daily gratitude engage;
A WIFE-the joy and transport of my youth,
A SON-the comfort of declining age.
Seek not to draw me from this calm retreat,
In loftier fpheres unfit, untaught to move;
Content with plain domeftic life, where meet
The fweets of friendship, and the fmiles of love.
PLEASURES OF A COUNTRY LIFE.
WITH fplendid charms Sol's eaftern rays unfold,
And tinge the mountains with a fluid gold.
To life he wakes the dew bright earth around,
And spreads his luftre o'er the spangled ground.
With light refplendant o'er the vallies plays;
The landfkips fmile, and court his cheering rays;
Millions of infects into life arife,
And tafle the mild nefs of the morning skies:
On ev'ry fpray the dew-drops twinkle round;
With artless fongs the hills and vales refound,
And from the woods the fawns advancing bound,
To thee, all cheering fun! I raife my rain,
Thou bright informer of the ftarry train,
Thou heav'nly fubftitute of joys below,
From whofe foft beams unnumber'd bleffings flow!
It glads me now o'er dew-wet fields to ftray,
And with the fhepherd hail the infant day;
Who rous'd from leaden fleep's oblivious chains,
Now leaves his cot and haftens to the plains.
O'er bleating flocks his tender care renews,
And with content his wonted toils pursues.
When scorching beams their ardent influence shed,
He feeks fome fhade, and on a moffy bed,
Amidst the mingling trees soft shelter lies,
While bufy Zephyr thro' their foliage fighs;
verge of fome embower'd riil,
Sees thro' the grafs the pearly drops diftil:
In coolness thus the live-long day he spends,
'Till Sol, declining, to the weftward bends ;
Then o'er the plain his bleating flocks beholds,
And whistling drives them to their wonted folds.
How happy's he! who thus employs his hours:
On plains, in groves, and cool fequefter'd bow'rs;
Whofe peaceful life's fecure from boift'rous feas,
The world's vexations, and from flothful eafe.
Around him filence lulls to peace
his foul,
While chearful hopes each rifing fear controul:
Exempt from cares which scepter'd honours bring,
He fcorns to foar on proud ambition's wing:
Content with little, little he enjoys,
With fuch true relifh, as no guilt annoys.
One race of pleasure crowns his happy state,
Which fill is made by nature's bounty great.
Him fimple truth and innocence attend,
And balmy eafe and blooming health befriend;
In ev'ry fhape he fhifting Nature views,
And her with pleasure thro' each fcene pursues.
The Summer, Autumn, Winter, and the Spring,
Him blifs alternate, and fresh pleasures bring,
His life's one round of undisturb'd repose;
The choiceft bleffing Heav'n on man beflows.
Hear me, ye Mufes, with whofe charms I'm fir'd,
And with whofe influence I am oft infpir'd,
|