A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain;
Their hollow moments undelighted all?
Sure peace is his; a folid life estrang'd
To disappointment, and fallacious hope:
Rich in content, in Nature's bounty rich,
In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the Spring,
When heaven descends in showers; or bends the bough
When Summer reddens, and when Autumn beams:
Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies
Conceal'd, and fattens with the richest sap;
These are not wanting; nor the milky drove,
Luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowing vale;
Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams,
And hum of bees, inviting fleep fincere
Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade,
Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay;
Nor aught befides of profpect, grove, or fong,
Dim grottoes, gleaming lakes, and fountain clear.
Here too dwells simple Truth; plain Innocence;
Unfullied Beauty; found unbroken Youth,
Patient of labour, with a little pleas'd;
Health ever blooming; unambitious Toil;
Calm Contemplation, and poetic Eafe.
The Pleasure and Benefit of an improved and well-directed
Он! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid fongs
Of Luxury, the firen! not the bribes
Of fordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant Honour, can feduce to leave
Those ever-blooming sweets, which, from the store
Of Nature, fair Imagination culls,
To charm th' enliven'd foul! What tho' not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the height
Of envy'd life: tho' only few possess
Patrician treasures, or imperial state;
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures, and an ampler state,
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marble and the sculptur'd gold,
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the Spring
Diftils her dews, and from the filken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
Each pafsing hour sheds tribute from her wings;
And ftill new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow; not a cloud imbibes
The fetting fun's effulgence; not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Afcends; but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure, unreprov'd. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only; for th' attentive Mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious: wont fo oft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of facred order, foon she seeks at home,
To find a kindred order; to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,
This fair inspir'd delight: her temper'd pow'rs
Refine at length, and ev'ry passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.
But if to ampler profpects, if to gaze
On Nature's form, where, negligent of all
These lesser graces, she assumes the port
Of that Eternal Majesty that weigh'd
The world's foundations, if to these the Mind
Exalts here daring eye; then mightier far
Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of fervile Custom cramp her gen'rous pow'rs?
Would fordid policies, the barb'rous growth
Of Ignorance and Rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear;
Lo! she appeals to Nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the fun's unwearied course,
The elements and seasons: all declare
For what th' eternal MAKER has ordain'd
The pow'rs of man: we feel within ourselves
His energy divine: he tells the heart,
He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb
Of life and being; to be great like Him,
Beneficent and active. Thus the men
Whom Nature's works instruct, with God himself
Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions; act upon his plan;
And form to his, the relish of their fouls.
AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove; When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's fong in the grove
'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain reclin'd,
A hermit his nightly complaint thus began:
Tho' mournful his numbers, his foul was resign'd;
He thought as a sage, tho' he felt as a man.
"Ah! why, thus abandon'd to darkness and woe; "Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy fad strain? "For fpring shall return, and a partner bestow; "And thy bofom no trace of misfortune retain.
" Yet if pity inspire thee, O cease not thy lay! "Mourn, sweetest companion; man calls thee to
"O footh him whose pleasures, like thine, pass away! "Full quickly they pafs-but they never return!
"Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, "The moon, half extinct, a dim crescent displays; "But lately I mark'd, when majeftic on high "She shone, and the planets were loft in her blaze.
"Roll on then, fair orb, and with gladness pursue "The path that conducts thee to splendor again: "But man's faded glory no change shall renew; "Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!
"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more: " I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; " For Morn is approaching, your charms to restore " Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew.
"Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; "Kind Nature the embryo-blossom shall save: " But when shall spring visit the mould'ring urn! "O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!"
The Beggar's Petition.
PITY the forrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
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