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Whose work is without labor, whofe designs
No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts,
And whose beneficence no charge exhausts.
Him blind antiquity profan'd, not serv'd,
With felf-taught rites, and under various names,
Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan,
And Flora and Vertumnus; peopling earth
With tutelary goddeffes and gods

That were not, and commending as they would
To each fome province, garden, field, or grove.
But all are under one. One fpirit-His

Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows,
Rules univerfal nature. Not a flow'r

But shows fome touch'in freckle, streak or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He infpires
Their balmy odors and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,
In grains as countless as the fea-fide fands,

The forms with which he fprinkles all the earth.
Happy who walks with him! whom what he finds

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Of flavour or of fcent in fruit or flow'r,
Or what he views of beautiful or grand
In nature, from the broad majestic oak
To the green blade that twinkles in the fun,
Prompts with remembrance of a prefent God.
His prefence, who made all fo fair, perceiv'd,
Makes all still fairer. As with him no scene
Is dreary, so with him all feasons please.

Though winter had been none, had man been true,
And earth be punished for its tenant's fake,
Yet not in vengeance; as this fmiling fky,
So foon fucceeding fuch an angry night,

And thefe diffolving fnows, and this clear ftream
Recov'ring faft its liquid mufic, prove.

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Who then, that has a mind well ftrung and tun'd To contemplation, and within his reach.

A fcene fo friendly to his fav'rite task,

Would waste attention at the chequer'd board,

His hoft of wooden warriors to and fro

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Marching

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Marching and counter-marching, with an eye
As fixt as marble, with a forehead ridg’d
And furrow'd into storms, and with a hand
Trembling, as if eternity were hung
In balance on his conduct of a pin ?
Nor envies he aught more their idle sport,
Who pant with application mifapplied
To trivial toys, and, pushing iv'ry balls
Across the velvet level, feel a joy
Akin to rapture, when the bawble finds
Its deftin'd goal, of difficult accefs.

Nor deems he wifer him, who gives his noon
To Mifs, the Mercer's plague, from fhop to fhop
Wand'ring, and litt'ring with unfolded filks
The polish'd counter, and approving none,
Or promising with smiles to call again.
Nor him, who by his vanity feduç'd,

And footh'd into a dream that he difcerns.
The diff'rence of a Guido from a daub, :.

Frequents the crowded auction. Station'd there

As duly as the Langford of the fhow,
With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand,
And tongue accomplish'd in the fulfome cant
And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease;
Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls
He notes it in his book, then raps his box,
Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate
That he has let it pass-but never bids.

Here, unmolested, through whatever fign
The fun proceeds, I wander. Neither mist,
Nor freezing fky, nor fultry, checking me,
Nor ftranger intermeddling with my joy.
Ev'n in the spring and play-time of the year,
That calls th' unwonted villager abroad
With all her little ones, a fportive train,
To gather king-cups in the yellow mead,
And prink their hair with daifies, or to pick
A cheap but wholesome fallad from the brook,

These shades are all my own. The tim'rous hare,

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Grown

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Grown fo familiar with her frequent guest,
Scarce fhuns me; and the stock-dove, unalarm'd,
Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor fufpends
His long love-ditty for my near approach.
Drawn from his refuge in fome lonely elm
That age or injury has hollow'd deep,
Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves,
He has outslept the winter, ventures forth
To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm fun,
The fquirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play :
He fees me, and at once, swift as a bird,

Afcends the neighb'ring beach; there whisks his brush,
And perks his ears, and ftamps and fcolds aloud,
With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm,
And anger infignificantly fierce.

The heart is hard in nature, and unfit
For human fellowship, as being void

Of fympathy, and therefore dead alike
To love and friendship both, that is not pleas'd

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