My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice
Had found me, or the hope of being free.
My very dreams were rural, rural too
The first-born efforts of my youthful muse,
Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs.
No bard could please me but whose lyre was tun'd
To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats
Fatigu'd me, never weary of the pipe
Of Tityrus, affembling, as he fang,
The ruftic throng beneath his fav'rite beech.
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms:
New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'd
The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue
To speak its excellence; I danc'd for joy.
I marvel'd much that at fo ripe an age
As twice fev'n years, his beauties had then first
Engag'd my wonder, and admiring ftill,
And still admiring, with regret fuppos'd
The joy half lost because not sooner found.
Thee too, enamour'd of the life I lov'd,
Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit
Determin'd, and poffeffing it at laft
With transports fuch as favor'd lovers feel,
I studied, priz'd, and wish'd that I had known,
Ingenious Cowley! and though now reclaim'd,
By modern lights, from an erroneous taste,
I cannot but lament thy fplendid wit
Entangled in the cobwebs of the fchools.
I ftill revere thee, courtly though retir'd,
Though ftretch'd at ease in Chertsey's filent bow'rs,
Not unemploy'd, and finding rich amends
For a loft world in folitude and verse.
'Tis born with all the love of Nature's works
Is an ingredient in the compound, man,
Infus'd at the creation of the kind.
And though th' Almighty Maker has throughout
Difcriminated each from each, by strokes
And touches of his hand, with fo much art
Diversified, that two were never found
Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all,
That all discern a beauty in his works,
And all can taste them: minds that have been form'd
And tutor❜d with a relish more exact,
But none without fome relish, none unmov'd.
It is a flame that dies not even there,
Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds,
Nor habits of luxurious city-life,
Whatever else they fmother of true worth
In human bofoms, quench it, or abate.
The villas with which London ftands begirt,
Like a fwarth Indian with his belt of beads,
Prove it. A breath of unadult'rate air,
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer
The citizen, and brace his languid frame!
Ev'n in the ftifling bofom of the town,
A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms
That soothe the rich poffeffor; much confol'd
That here and there fome sprigs of mournful mint,
Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well
Thefe ferve him with a hint
That Nature lives; that fight-refreshing green
Is ftill the liv'ry fhe delights to wear,
Though fickly famples of th' exub'rant whole. What are the cafements lin'd with creeping herbs, The prouder fafhes fronted with a range
Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,
The Frenchman's darling? Are they not all proofs
That man, immur'd in cities, ftill retains
His inborn inextinguishable thirst
Of rural scenes, compenfating his lofs
By fupplemental fhifts, the beft he may?
The moft unfurnifh'd with the means of life,
And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds.
To range the fields and treat their lungs with air,
Yet feel the burning instinct: over-head
Sufpend their crazy boxes, planted thick,
A fragment, and the fpoutlefs tea-pot there;
Sad witneffes how close-pent man regrets
The country, with what ardour he contrives
A peep at nature, when he can no more.
Hail, therefore, patronefs of health and ease,
And contemplation, heart-confoling joys
And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abode
Of multitudes unknown! hail, rural life!
Address himself who will to the pursuit
Of honors, or emolument, or fame,
I shall not add myself to fuch a chace,
Thwart his attempts, or envy his fuccefs.
Some must be great. Great offices will have
Great talents and God gives to ev'ry man
The virtue, temper, understanding, taste,
That lifts him in life, and lets him fall
Juft in the niche he was ordain'd to fill.
To the deliv'rer of an injur'd land
He gives a tongue t' enlarge upon, an heart
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