HE morning 's fair, the lufty fun With ruddy cheek begins to run; And early birds, that wing the skies, Sweetly fing to fee him rise.
I am refolv'd, this charming day,
In the open field to stray;
And have no roof above my head,
But that whereon the gods do tread.
Before the yellow barn I fee
A beautiful variety
Of strutting cocks, advancing ftout,
And flirting empty chaff about.
Hens, ducks, and geese, and all their brood,
And turkeys gobbling for their food;
While ruftics thrafh the wealthy floor,
And tempt all to crowd the door.
What a fair face does Nature show?
Augufta, wipe thy dusty brow;
A landskip wide falutes my fight,
Of fhady vales, and mountains bright;
And azure heavens I behold,
And clouds of filver and of gold.
And now into the fields I go,
Where thousand flaming flowers glow;
And every neighbouring hedge I greet,
With honey-fuckles fmelling fweet.
Now o'er the daisy meads I stray,
And meet with, as I pace my way,
Sweetly fhining on the eye,
A rivulet gliding smoothly by;
Which fhews with what an easy tide
The moments of the happy glide.
Here, finding pleasure after pain,
Sleeping, I fee a wearied swain,
While his full fcrip lies open by,
That does his healthy food fupply.
Happy fwain, fure happier far
Than lofty kings and princes are!
Enjoy sweet fleep, which shuns the crown,
With all its eafy beds of down.
The fun now shows his noon-tide blaze,
And sheds around me burning rays.
A little onward, and I go
Into the fhade that groves bestow;
And on green mofs I lay me down,
That o'er the root of oak has
grown;
Where all is filent, but fome flood
That sweetly murmurs in the wood;
But birds that warble in the sprays,
And charm ev'n Silence with her lays.
Oh powerful Silence, how you reign
In the Poet's busy brain!
His numerous thoughts obey the calls
Of the tuneful water-falls,
Like moles, whene'er the coaft is clear,
They rife before thee without fear,
And range in parties here and there.
Some wildly to Parnaffus wing,
And view the fair Caftalian spring;
Where they behold a lonely well,
Where now no tuneful Mufes dwell;
But now and then a flavish hind
Paddling the troubled pool they find.
Some trace the pleafing paths of joy,
Others the blissful fcene destroy;
In thorny tracks of sorrow stray,
And pine for Clio far away.
But ftay-Methinks her lays I hear,
So fmooth! fo fweet! fo deep! fo clear!
No, 'tis not her voice 1 find,
'Tis but the echo stays behind.
Some meditate ambition's brow,
And the black gulph that gapes below:
Some peep in courts, and there they fee
The fneaking tribe of Flattery.
But, ftriking to the ear and eye,
A nimble deer comes bounding by!
When rushing from yon ruftling spray,
It made them vanish all away.
I rouze me up, and on I rove,
'Tis more than time to leave the grove.
The fun declines, the evening breeze
Begins to whisper through the trees:
And, as I leave the fylvan gloom,
As to the glare of day I come,
An old man's fmoky neft I fee,
Leaning on an aged tree;
Whose willow walls, and furzy brow,
A little garden fway below.
Through spreading beds of blooming green,
Matted with herbage sweet, and clean,
A vein of water limps along,
And makes them ever green, and young.
Here he puffs upon his fpade,
And digs up cabbage in the shade:
His tatter'd rags are fable brown,
His beard and hair are hoary grown:
The dying fap descends apace,
And leaves a wither'd hand and face.
Up Grongar hill I labour now,
And catch at last his bushy brow.
Oh, how fresh, how pure the air!
Let me breathe a little here.
Where am I, Nature? I defcry
Thy magazine before me lie!
Temples !—and towns !—and towers!—and woods!
And hills!-and vales !—and fields !-and floods!
Crouding before me, edg'd around
With naked wilds, and barren ground.
See, below, the pleasant dome,
The Poet's pride, the Poet's home,
Which the fun-beams fhine upon,
To the even, from the dawn.
See her woods, where Echo talks,
Her gardens trim, her terras walks,
Her wildernesses, fragrant brakes,
Her gloomy bowers, and fhining lakes.
Keep, ye gods, this humble feat,
For ever pleasant, private, neat.
See yonder hill, uprising steep,
Above the river flow and deep:
It looks from hence a pyramid,
Beneath a verdant foreft hid;
On whose high top there rifes great,
The mighty remnant of a seat,
An old green tower, whofe batter'd brow
Frowns upon the vale below.
Look upon that flowery plain,
How the sheep furround their swain,
How they crowd to hear his strain !
All careless with his legs across,
Leaning on a bank of mofs,
He spends his empty hours at play,
Which fly as light as down away.
And there behold a bloomy mead,
A filver ftream, a willow fhade,
Beneath the fhade of fisher ftand,
Who, with the angle in his hand,
Swings the nibbling fry to land.
In blushes the defcending fun
Kiffes the streams, while flow they run;
And yonder hill remoter grows,
Or dufky clouds do interpofe.
The fields are left, the labouring hind
His weary oxen does unbind;
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