Of nature and the year: come let us stray Where chance or fancy leads our roving walk ; Come, while the soft voluptuous breezes fan The fleecy heavens, enwrap the limbs with balm, And shed a pleasing langour o'er the soul Nor when bright winter sows with prickly frost The vigorous ether, in unmanly warmth Indulge at home; nor e'en Eurus' blasts
This way and that convolve the labouring woods. My liberal walks, save when the skies in rain Or fogs relent, no season should confine
Or to the cloistered gallery, or arcade.
Go, climb the mountain; from the ethereal source Imbibe the recent gale. The cheerful morn
Go, mount the exulting steed.
Toil and be strong. Some love the manly foils; The tennis some; and some the graceful dance; Others, more hardy, range the purple heath Or naked stubble; where from field to field The sounding coveys urge their labouring flight; Eager amid the rising cloud to pour
The gun's unerring thunder: and there are Whom still the meed of the green archer charms. But if through genuine tenderness of heart, Or secret want of relish for the game, You shun the glories of the chase, nor care To haunt the peopled stream, the garden yields A soft amusement, a humane delight.
To raise the insipid nature of the ground, Or tame its savage genius to the grace Of careless sweet rusticity, that seems The amiable result of happy chance, Is to create, and give a godly joy,
Which every year improves. Nor thou disdain To check the lawless riot of the trees,
To plant the grove, or turn the barren mould.
FATE OF POVERTY IN LONDON.
Thrice happy days! in rural labours past: Blest winter nights! when, as the genial fire Cheers the old hall, his cordial family
With soft domestic arts the hours beguile, And pleasing talk that starts no timorous fame, With witless wantonness to hunt it down: Or through the fairy-land of tale or song Delighted wander, in fictitious fates Engaged, and all that strikes humanity; Till, lost in fable, they the stealing hour Of timely rest forget. Sometimes, at eve, His neighbours lift the latch, and bless unbid His festal roof; while o'er the light repast And sprightly cups, they mix in social joy; And through the maze of conversation trace Whate'er amuses or improves the mind.
SAMUEL JOHNSON. BORN, 1709; DIED, 1784.
FATE OF POVERTY IN LONDON.
By numbers here from shame or censure free, All crimes are safe but hated poverty.
This, only this, the rigid law pursues,
This, only this, provokes the snarling muse. The sober trader at a tatter'd cloak
Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke; With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze, And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd, Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest; Fate never wounds more deep the generous heart, Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart. Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor, No pathless waste, or undiscover'd shore?
No secret island in the boundless main? No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain? Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore, And bear oppression's insolence no more. This mournful truth is everywhere confess'd, Slow rises worth by poverty depress'd:
But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold, Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold: Where won by bribes, by flatteries implored, The groom retails the favour of his lord,
THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.
IN full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand,
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand: To him the church, the realm, their pow'rs consign, Through him the rays of regal bounty shine; Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows, His smile alone security bestows;
Still to new heights his restless wishes tower, Claim leads to claim, and power advances power; Till conquest, unresisted, ceased to please, And rights submitted left him none to seize, At length his Sovereign frowns-the train of state Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye, His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; Now drops at once the pride of awful state, The golden canopy, the glittering plate, The regal palace, the luxurious board, The liveried army, and the menial lord.
Why the cold urn of her whom long he loved,
So often fills his arms; so often draws
His lonely footsteps at the silent hour, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears? O! he will tell thee that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego That sacred hour, when stealing from the noise Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes With virtue's kindest looks his aching breast, And turns his tears to rapture. Ask the crowd Which flies impatient from the village walk, To climb the neighbouring cliffs, when far below The cruel winds have hurled upon the coast Some helpless bark; while sacred pity melts The general eye, or terror's icy hand
Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair, While every mother closer to her breast Catches her child, and, pointing where the waves Foam through the shattered vessel, shrieks aloud, As some poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms For succour, swallowed by the roaring surge, As now another, dashed against the rock, Drops lifeless down. O, deemest thou indeed No kind endearment here by nature given To mutual terror and compassion's tears? No sweetly melting softness which attracts, O'er all that edge of pain, the social powers, To this their proper action and their end?
WHAT, though not all Of mortal offspring can attain the heights Of envied life; though 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. The rural honours his.
His the city's pomp, Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch, The breathing marble and the sculptured gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him the hand Of autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold and blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure, unreproved.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
BORN, 1728; DIED, 1774.
In all my wand'rings round this world of care, In all my grief, and God has given my share— I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bow'rs to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting my repose:
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