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NATURE I'll court in her fequefter'd haunts,
By mountain, meadow, ftreamlet, grove, or cell;
Where the pois'd lark his evening ditty chaunts,
TION dwell.

There STUDY fhall with SOLITUDE recline;
And FRIENDSHIP pledge me to his fellow-

And TOIL and TEMPERANCE fedately twine The flender cord that fluttering life fuftains: And fearless POVERTY fhall guard the door; And TASTE unfpoiled the frugal table spread; And INDUSTRY fupply the humble ftore;

And SLEEP, unbribed, his dews refreshing fhed: White-mantled INNOCENCE, ætherial fprite, Shall chafe far off the goblins of the night: And INDEPENDENCE o'er the day prefide, Propitious power! my patron and my pride.



IN the barn the tenant cock,
Clofe to Partlet perch'd on high,
Brifkly crows, (the fhepherd's clock!)
Jocund that the morning's nigh.
Swiftly from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire:'
And the peeping fun-beam, now,
Paints with gold the village fpire.
Philomel forfakes the thorn,
Plaintive where the prates at night
And the lark, to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's fight.

From the low-roof'd cottage ridge,
See the chatt'ring fwallow fpring;
Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick the dips her dappled wing.
Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently greets the morning gale!
Kidlings, now, begin to crop
Daifies in the dewy dale.

From the balmy fweets, uncloy'd,
(Refilefs till her task be done)
Now, the bufy bee's employ'd
Sipping dew before the fun.
Trickling through the crevic'd rock,
Where, the limpid ftream difiills,
Sweet refreshment waits the flock
When 'tis fun-drove from the hills.

Colin, for the promis'd corn

(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe) Anxious, hears the huntfman's horn, Boldly founding, drown his pipe.

Sweet,-O fweet, the warbling throng, On the white embloffom'd spray! Nature's univerfal fong

Echoes to the rising day.


Fervid on the glitt'ring flood,
Now, the noon-tide radiance glows:
Drooping o'er its infant bud,

Not a dew-drop's left the rofe.

By the brook the shepherd dines;
From the fierce meridian heat
Shelter'd, by the branching pines,
Pendent o'er his graffy feat.

Now the flock forfakes the glade,

Where, uncheck'd the fun-beams fall;

Sure to find a pleasing shade

By the ivy'd Abbey wall.

Echo in her airy round,

O'er the river, rock, and hill,
Cannot catch a fingle found,

Save the clack of yonder mill.
Cattle court the zephyrs bland,
Where the streamlet wanders cool;
Or with languid filence fland
Midway in the marshy pool.

But from mountain, dell, or ftream,
Not a flutt'ring zephyr fprings:
Fearful left the nood-tide beam
Scorch its foft, its filken wings.
Not a leaf has leave to ftir,
Nature's lull'd-ferene-and ftill!
Quiet e'en the fhepherd's cur,
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.
Languid is the landscape round,
Till the fresh defcending fhower,
Grateful to the thirfly ground,
Raifes ev'ry fainting flower.
Now the hill-the hedge-is green,
Now the warblers' throats in tune!
Blithfome is the verdant scene,
Brighten'd by the beams of noon!


O'er the heath the heifer ftrays
Free, (the furrow'd tafk is done)
Now the village windows blaze,
Burnish'd by the fetting fun.

Now he hides behind the hill,
Sinking from a golden fky:
Can the pencil's mimic skill,
Copy the refulgent dye?
Trudging as the ploughmen go,

(To the fmoking hamlet bound)
Giant-like their fhadows grow,
Lengthen'd o'er the level ground.
Where the rifing foreft fpreads,
Shelter for the lordly dome!
To their high-built airy beds,
See the rooks returning home!
As the lark with vary'd tune,
Carols to the evening loud;
Mark the mild refplendent moon,
Breaking through a parted cloud!
Now the hermit howlet peeps
From the barn, or twifted brake:
And the blue mift flowly creeps,
Curling on the filver lake.
As the trout, in fpeckled pride,
Playful from its bofom fprings;
To the banks, a ruffled tide
Verges in fucceffive rings.
Tripping through the filken grafs,
O'er the path-divided dale,
Mark the rofe complexion'd lafs,
With her well-pois'd milking pail.
Linnets, with unnumber'd notes,
And the cuckoo-bird with two,
Tuning fweet their mellow throats,
Bid the fetting fun adieu.


THE wealthy cit, grown old in trade, Now wishes for the rural fhade, And buckles to his one-horfe chair, Old Dobbin, or the founder'd mare; While wedg'd in closely by his fide, Sits Madam, his unwieldy bride, With Jacky on a ftool before 'em, And out they jog in due decorum. Scarce paft the turnpike half a mile, How all the country feems to fmile! And as they flowly jog together, The Cit commends the road and weather; While Madam doats upon the trees, And longs for ev'ry house she fees; Admires its views, its fituation, And thus fhe opens her oration: What fignify the loads of wealth, Without that richeft jewel, health? Excufe the fondnefs of a wife, Who doats upon your precious life! Such ceafelefs toil, fuch conftant care, Is more than human ftrength can bear! One may obferve it in your faceIndeed, my dear, you break apace: And nothing can your health repair, But exercife and country air; Sir Traffic has a house, you know, About a mile from Cheney-Row; He's a good man, indeed 'tis true, But not fo warm, my dear, as you: And folks are always apt to fneer— One would not be out-done my dear! Sir Traffic's name fo well apply'd, Awak'd his brother-merchant's pride, And Thrifty, who had all his life Paid utmoft deference to his wife, Confefs'd her argument had reason, And by th' approaching fummer season,

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