For the unscented fictions of the loom; Who, satisfied with only pencill'd scenes, Prefer to the performance of a God The inferior wonders of an artist's hand. Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art; But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire― None more admires-the painter's magic skill, Who shows me that which I shall never see, Conveys a distant country into mine, And throws Italian light on English walls: But imitative strokes can do no more
Than please the eye-sweet Nature every sense. The air salubrious of her lofty hills,
The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, And music of her woods-no works of man May rival these; these all bespeak a power Peculiar, and exclusively her own. Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast; "Tis free to all-'tis every day renew'd; Who scorns it, starves deservedly at home. He does not scorn it, who, imprison'd long In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey To sallow sickness, which the vapours, dank And clammy, of his dark abode have bred, Escapes at last to liberty and light: His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue ; His eye relumines its extingush'd fires;
He walks, he leaps, he runs-is wing'd with joy, And riots in the sweets of every breeze.
He does not scorn it who has long endured A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs. Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed With acrid salts; his very heart athirst To gaze at Nature in her green array,
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd With visions prompted by intense desire : Fair fields appear below, such as he left Far distant, such as he would die to find- He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns; The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown, And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort, And mar the face of Beauty, when no cause For such immeasurable woe appears-
These Flora banishes, and gives the fair
Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own. It is the constant revolution, stale
And tasteless, of the same repeated joys,
That palls and satiates, and makes languid life A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down. Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart Recoils from its own choice-at the full feast Is famish'd-finds no music in the song, No smartness in the jest; and wonders why. Yet thousands still desire to journey on, Though halt, and weary of the path they tread. The paralytic, who can hold her cards, But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort Her mingled suits and sequences; and sits, Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad And silent cipher, while her proxy plays. Others are dragg'd into the crowded room Between supporters; and, once seated, sit, Through downright inability to rise, Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again. These speak a loud memento. Yet even these Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he
That overhangs a torrent, to a twig. They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die, Yet scorn the purposes for which they live.
Then wherefore not renounce them? No-the dread, The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame, And their inveterate habits, all forbid.
Whom call we gay? That honour has been long The boast of mere pretenders to the name. The innocent are gay-the lark is gay, That dries his feathers, saturate with dew, Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams Of dayspring overshoot his humble nest. The peasant, too, a witness of his song, Himself a songster, is as gay as he.
But save me from the gaiety of those Whose headaches nail them to a noonday bed; And save me too from theirs, whose haggard eyes Flash desperation, and betray their pangs For property stripp'd off by cruel chance; From gaiety, that fills the bones with pain,
The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change,
And pleased with novelty, might be indulged. Prospects, however lovely, may be seen Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight, Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. Then snug enclosures in the shelter'd vale, Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, Delight us; happy to renounce awhile, Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, That such short absence may endear it more.
Then forests, or the savage rock, may please, That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts Above the reach of man. His hoary head, Conspicuous many a league, the mariner, Bound homeward, and in hope already there, Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist A girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows, And at his feet the baffled billows die.
The common, overgrown with fern, and rough With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd, And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom, And decks itself with ornaments of gold, Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense With luxury of unexpected sweets.
There often wanders one, whom better days Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound. A serving maid was she, and fell in love With one who left her, went to sea, and died. Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves To distant shores; and she would sit and weep At what a sailor suffers; fancy too, Delusive most where warmest wishes are, Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know. She heard the doleful tidings of his death— And never smiled again! And now she roams The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day. And there, unless when charity forbids, The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides, Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown More tatter'd still; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,
And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, Though pinch'd with cold, asks never.-Kate is crazed! I see a column of slow-rising smoke
O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung Between two poles upon a stick transverse, Receives the morsel-flesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloin'd From his accustom'd perch. Hard faring race! They pick their fuel out of every hedge,
Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin, The vellum of the pedigree they claim. Great skill have they in palmistry, and more To conjure clean away the gold they touch, Conveying worthless dross into its place; Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal. Strange! that a creature rational, and cast In human mould, should brutalize by choice His nature; and, though capable of arts By which the world might profit, and himself, Self-banish'd from society, prefer
Such squalid sloth to honourable toil! Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft, They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, And vex their flesh with artificial sores,- Can change their whine into a mirthful note, When safe occasion offers; and with dance, And music of the bladder and the bag,
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