That shake the lofty monarch on his throne,
We leffer folks feel not.
Advancement ofter brings. To be fecure,
Be humble; to be happy, be content.
But come, we loiter. Pafs unnotic'd by
The fleepy crocus, and the flaring daily,
The courtier of the fun. What fee we there ?
The love-fick cowflip, that her head inclines
To hide a bleeding heart. And here's the meek.
And foft-eyed primrose. Dandelion this,
A college youth that flashes for a day
All gold; anon he doffs his gaudy fuit,
Touch'd by the magic hand of fome grave bishop.
And all at once, by commutation strange,
Becomes a Reverend Divine.
The melancholy hyacinth, that weeps
All night, and never lifts an eye all day.
How gay this meadow-like a gamesome boy
New cloth'd, his locks freh comb'd and powder'd, he
All health and fpirits. Scarce fo-many kars
Shine in the azure canopy of Heav'n,
As king cups here are scatter'd, interfpers'd
With filver daifies.
See, the toiling fwain.
With many a sturdy ftroke cuts up at last
The tough and finewy furze. How hard he fought
To win the glory of the barren waste!
For what more noble than the vernal fürze
With golden baskets hung? Approach it not,
For ev'ry bloffom has a troop of fwords
Drawn to defend it. 'Tis the treasury
Of Fays and Fairies. Here they nightly meet,
Each with a burnifh'd king-cup in his hand,
And quaff the fubtile ether. Here they dance
Or to the village chimes, or moody fong
Of midnight Philomel. The ringlet fee
Fantaftically trod. There, Oberon
His gallant train leads out, the while his torch
The glow-worm lights and dufky night illumes;
And there they foot it featly round, and laugh.
The facred fpot the fuperftitious ewe
Regards, and bites it not in reverence.
Anon the drowfy clock tolls One-the cock
His clarion founds-the dance breaks off-the lights
Are quench'd-the mufic hufh'd-they speed away
Swifter than thought, and still the break of day
Outrun, and chafing Midnight as the flies,
Purfue her round the globe. So Fancy weaves
Her flimfy web, while fober Reafon fits,
And fmiling, wonders at the puny work,
A net for her; then fprings on eagle wing,
Conftraint defies, and foars above the fun.
But mark with how peculiar grace, yon wood,
That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze
Her fea of leaves; thither we turn our steps;
And by the way attend the cheerful found
Of woodland harmony, that always fills.
The merry vale between. How fweet the fong
Day's harbinger attunes! I have not heard
Such elegant divifions drawn from art.
And what is he that wins our admiration ♪
A little fpeck that floats upon the funbeam.
What vaft perfection cannot Nature crowd
Into a puny point! The nightingale,
Her folo anthem fung, and all that heard,
Content, joins in the chorus of the day,
She, gentle heart, thinks it no pain to please,
Nor, like the moody fongfters of the world,
Juft fhows her talent, pleafes, takes affront,
And locks it up in envy.
I love to fee the little goldfinch pluck
The groundfel's feather'd feed, and twit and twit;
And then in bow'r of apple bloffoms perch'd,
Trim his gay fuit, and pay us with a fong.
I would not hold him pris'ner for the world.
The chimney haunting fwallow, too, my eye
And ear well pleafes. I delight to fee
How fuddenly he fkims the glaffy pool,
How quaintly dips, an with a bullet's fpeed
Whifks by. I love to be awake, and hear
His morning fong twitter'd to young ey'd day.
But most of all it wins my admiration,
To view the ftructure of this little work,
A bird's neft. Mark it well, within, without.
No tool had be that wrought, no knife to cuty
No nail to fix, no bodkin to infert,
No glue to join; his little beak was all.
And yet how neatly finish'd. What nice hand,
With ev'ry implement and means of art,
And twenty years apprenticeship to boot,
Could make me fuch another? Fondly then
We boaft of excellence, whofe nobleft skill
Instinctive genius foils.
The bee obferve;
She too an artift is, and laughs at man
Who calls on rules the fightly hexagon
With truth to form; a cunning architect,
That at the roof begins her golden work,
And builds without foundation. How fhe toils,
And ftill from bud to bud, from flow'r to flow'r,
Travels the livelong day, Ye idle drones,
That rather pilfer than your bread obtain
By honeft means like these, look here and learn
How good, how fair, how honourable 'ti
To live by induftry. The bufy tribes.
Of bees fo emulous, are daily fed.
With Heav'n's peculiar manna.
Unwearied alchymifts, the blooming world
Nectarious gold diflils. And bounteous Heav'ny
Still to the diligent and active good,
Their very labour makes the certain caufe
Of future wealth.
But fee, the fetting fun
Puts on a milder countenance, and skirts
The undulated clouds, that cross his way
With glory vifible. His axle cools,
And his broad disk, though fervent, not intense, -
Foretells the near approach of matron night.
Ye fair, retreat! Your drooping flowers need
Wholesome refreshment. Down the hedgerow path
We haften home, and only flack our speed
To gaze a moment at th' accustom'd gap,
That all fo unexpectedly prefents
The clear cerulean profpect down the vale.
Difpers'd along the bottom flocks and herds,,
Hay-ricks and cottages, befides a ftream
That filverly meanders here and there;
And higher up, corn-fields, and paftures, hops,
And waving woods, and tufts, and lonely oaks,
Thick interfpers'd as Nature beft was pleas'd.
Happy the man who truly loves his home,
And never wanders farther from his door:
Than we have gone to day; who feels his heart
Still drawing homeward, and delights, like us,
Once more to reft his foot on his own threshold.
THE STORY OF LE FEVRE.
Ir was fome time in the fummer of that year in which
Dendermond was taken by the allies, which was about
feven years before my father came into the country, and
about as many after the time that my uncle Toby and Trim had privately decamped from my father's houfe in town, in order to lay fome of the fineft fieges to fome of the finest fortified cities in Europe-when my uncle Toby was one evening getting his fupper, with Trim fitting behind him. at a finall fideboard.-The landlord of a little inn in the village came into the parlour with an empty phial in his hand to beg a glass or two of fack-'Tis for a poor gentleman-I think of the army, faid the landlord, who has. been taken ill at my houfe four days ago, and has never held up his head fince, or had a defire to taîte any thing, till just now, that he has a fancy for a glass of sack and a. thin toast — I think, says he, taking his hand from his forehead, it would comfort me.
-IF I could neither beg, borrow, nor buy fuch a thing, added the landlord, I would almoft fteal it for the poor gentleman, he is fo ill.I hope in God he will fill
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