hark! ’tis the twanging horn o’er yonder bridge,

that with its wearisome but needful length

bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon

sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;—

he comes, the herald of a noisy world,

with spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks,

news from all nations lumbering at his back.

true to his charge the close-packed load behind,

yet careless what he brings, his one concern

is to conduct it to the destined inn,

and, having dropped the expected bag—pass on.

he whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,

cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief

perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;

to him indifferent whether grief or joy.

houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,

births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet

with tears that trickled down the writer’s cheeks,

fast as the periods from his fluent quill,

or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,

or nymphs responsive, equally affect

his horse and him, unconscious of them all.

but oh, the important budget! ushered in

with such heart-shaking music, who can say

what are its tidings? have our troops awaked?

or do they still, as if with opium drugged,

snore to the murmurs of the atlantic wave?

is india free? and does she wear her plumed

and jewelled turban with a smile of peace,

or do we grind her still? the grand debate,

the popular harangue, the tart reply,

the logic and the wisdom and the wit

and the loud laugh—i long to know them all;

i burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free,

and give them voice and utterance once again.

now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,

let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,

and while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn

throws up a steamy column, and the cups,

that cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,

so let us welcome peaceful evening in.

not such his evening, who with shining face

sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeezed

and bored with elbow-points through both his sides,

outscolds the ranting actor on the stage;

nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb

and his head thumps, to feed upon the breath

of patriots bursting with heroic rage,

or placemen all tranquillity and smiles.

this folio of four pages, happy work!

which not even critics criticise, that holds

inquisitive attention while i read

fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,

though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break,

what is it but a map of busy life,

its fluctuations and its vast concerns?

here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge

that tempts ambition. on the summit, see,

the seals of office glitter in his eyes;

he climbs, he pants, he grasps them. at his heels,

close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,

and with a dextrous jerk soon twists him down

and wins them, but to lose them in his turn.

here rills of oily eloquence, in soft

meanders, lubricate the course they take;

the modest speaker is ashamed and grieved

to engross a moment’s notice, and yet begs,

begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,

however trivial all that he conceives.

sweet bashfulness! it claims, at least, this praise,

the dearth of information and good sense

that it foretells us, always comes to pass.

cataracts of declamation thunder here,

there forests of no meaning spread the page

in which all comprehension wanders lost;

while fields of pleasantry amuse us there,

with merry descants on a nation’s woes.

the rest appears a wilderness of strange

but gay confusion; roses for the cheeks

and lilies for the brows of faded age,

teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,

heaven, earth, and ocean plundered of their sweets.

nectareous essences, olympian dews,

sermons and city feasts and favourite airs,

ethereal journeys, submarine exploits,

and katterfelto with his hair on end

at his own wonders, wondering for his bread.

’tis pleasant through the loopholes of retreat

to peep at such a world; to see the stir

of the great babel and not feel the crowd;

to hear the roar she sends through all her gates

at a safe distance, where the dying sound

falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.

thus sitting and surveying thus at ease

the globe and its concerns, i seem advanced

to some secure and more than mortal height,

that liberates and exempts me from them all.

it turns submitted to my view, turns round

with all its generations; i behold

the tumult and am still. the sound of war

has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;

grieves, but alarms me not. i mourn the pride

and avarice that makes man a wolf to man;

hear the faint echo of those brazen throats

by which he speaks the language of his heart,

and sigh, but never tremble at the sound.

he travels and expatiates, as the bee

from flower to flower so he from land to land;

the manners, customs, policy of all

pay contribution to the store he gleans,

he sucks intelligence in every clime,

and spreads the honey of his deep research

at his return—a rich repast for me.

he travels and i too. i tread his deck,

ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes

discover countries, with a kindred heart

suffer his woes and share in his escapes;

while fancy, like the finger of a clock,

runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

oh winter, ruler of the inverted year,

thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled,

thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks

fringed with a beard made white with other snows

than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds,

a leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne

a sliding car indebted to no wheels,

but urged by storms along its slippery way,

i love thee, all unlovely as thou seem’st,

and dreaded as thou art. thou hold’st the sun

a prisoner in the yet undawning east,

shortening his journey between morn and noon,

and hurrying him, impatient of his stay,

down to the rosy west; but kindly still

compensating his loss with added hours

of social converse and instructive ease,

and gathering at short notice in one group

the family dispersed, and fixing thought

not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.

i crown thee king of intimate delights,

fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness,

and all the comforts that the lowly roof

of undisturbed retirement, and the hours

of long uninterrupted evening know.

no rattling wheels stop short before these gates;

no powdered pert proficients in the art

of sounding an alarm, assault these doors

till the street rings; no stationary steeds

cough their own knell, while heedless of the sound

the silent circle fan themselves, and quake:

but here the needle plies its busy task,

the pattern grows, the well-depicted flower,

wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,

unfolds its bosom; buds and leaves and sprigs

and curly tendrils, gracefully disposed,

follow the nimble finger of the fair;

a wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow

with most success when all besides decay.

the poet’s or historian’s page, by one

made vocal for the amusement of the rest;

the sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds

the touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;

and the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct,

and in the charming strife triumphant still,

beguile the night, and set a keener edge

on female industry; the threaded steel

flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.

the volume closed, the customary rites

of the last meal commence: a roman meal,

such as the mistress of the world once found

delicious, when her patriots of high note,

perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors,

and under an old oak’s domestic shade,

enjoyed—spare feast!—a radish and an egg.

discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull,

nor such as with a frown forbids the play

of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth;

nor do we madly, like an impious world,

who deem religion frenzy, and the god

that made them an intruder on their joys,

start at his awful name, or deem his praise

a jarring note; themes of a graver tone

exciting oft our gratitude and love,

while we retrace with memory’s pointing wand

that calls the past to our exact review,

the dangers we have scaped, the broken snare,

the disappointed foe, deliverance found

unlooked for, life preserved and peace restored,

fruits of omnipotent eternal love:—

oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed

the sabine bard. oh evenings, i reply,

more to be prized and coveted than yours,

as more illumined and with nobler truths,

that i, and mine, and those we love, enjoy.

is winter hideous in a garb like this?

needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps,

the pent-up breath of an unsavoury throng

to thaw him into feeling, or the smart

and snappish dialogue that flippant wits

call comedy, to prompt him with a smile?

the self-complacent actor, when he views

(stealing a sidelong glance at a full house)

the slope of faces from the floor to the roof,

as if one master-spring controlled them all,

relaxed into an universal grin,

sees not a countenance there that speaks a joy

half so refined or so sincere as ours.

cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks

that idleness has ever yet contrived

to fill the void of an unfurnished brain,

to palliate dulness and give time a shove.

time, as he passes us, has a dove’s wing,

unsoiled and swift and of a silken sound.

but the world’s time is time in masquerade.

theirs, should i paint him, has his pinions fledged

with motley plumes, and, where the peacock shows

his azure eyes, is tinctured black and red

with spots quadrangular of diamond form,

ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife,

and spades, the emblem of untimely graves.

what should be, and what was an hour-glass once,

becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mast

well does the work of his destructive scythe.

thus decked he charms a world whom fashion blinds

to his true worth, most pleased when idle most,

whose only happy are their wasted hours.

even misses, at whose age their mothers wore

the back-string and the bib, assume the dress

of womanhood, sit pupils in the school

of card-devoted time, and night by night,

placed at some vacant corner of the board,

learn every trick, and soon play all the game.

but truce with censure. roving as i rove,

where shall i find an end, or how proceed?

as he that travels far, oft turns aside

to view some rugged rock, or mouldering tower,

which seen delights him not; then coming home,

describes and prints it, that the world may know

how far he went for what was nothing worth;

so i, with brush in hand and pallet spread

with colours mixed for a far different use,

paint cards and dolls, and every idle thing

that fancy finds in her excursive flights.

come, evening, once again, season of peace,

return, sweet evening, and continue long!

methinks i see thee in the streaky west,

with matron-step slow moving, while the night

treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed

in letting fall the curtain of repose

on bird and beast, the other charged for man

with sweet oblivion of the cares of day;

not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid,

like homely-featured night, of clustering gems,

a star or two just twinkling on thy brow

suffices thee; save that the moon is thine

no less than hers, not worn indeed on high

with ostentatious pageantry, but set

with modest grandeur in thy purple zone,

resplendent less, but of an ampler round.

come, then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm,

or make me so. composure is thy gift;

and whether i devote thy gentle hours

to books, to music, or to poet’s toil,

to weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit,

or twining silken threads round ivory reels

when they command whom man was born to please,

i slight thee not, but make thee welcome still.

just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze

with lights, by clear reflection multiplied

from many a mirror, in which he of gath,

goliath, might have seen his giant bulk

whole without stooping, towering crest and all,

my pleasures too begin. but me perhaps

the glowing hearth may satisfy a while

with faint illumination, that uplifts

the shadow to the ceiling, there by fits

dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame.

not undelightful is an hour to me

so spent in parlour twilight; such a gloom

suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind,

the mind contemplative, with some new theme

pregnant, or indisposed alike to all.

laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers

that never feel a stupor, know no pause,

nor need one; i am conscious, and confess.

fearless, a soul that does not always think.

me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild

soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers,

trees, churches, and strange visages expressed

in the red cinders, while with poring eye

i gazed, myself creating what i saw.

nor less amused have i quiescent watched

the sooty films that play upon the bars

pendulous, and foreboding in the view

of superstition, prophesying still,

though still deceived, some stranger’s near approach.

’tis thus the understanding takes repose

in indolent vacuity of thought,

and sleeps and is refreshed. meanwhile the face

conceals the mood lethargic with a mask

of deep deliberation, as the man

were tasked to his full strength, absorbed and lost.

thus oft reclined at ease, i lose an hour

at evening, till at length the freezing blast

that sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home

the recollected powers, and, snapping short

the glassy threads with which the fancy weaves

her brittle toys, restores me to myself.

how calm is my recess! and how the frost

raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear

the silence and the warmth enjoyed within!

i saw the woods and fields at close of day

a variegated show; the meadows green

though faded, and the lands, where lately waved

the golden harvest, of a mellow brown,

upturned so lately by the forceful share;

i saw far off the weedy fallows smile

with verdure not unprofitable, grazed

by flocks fast feeding, and selecting each

his favourite herb; while all the leafless groves

that skirt the horizon wore a sable hue,

scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve.

to-morrow brings a change, a total change,

which even now, though silently performed

and slowly, and by most unfelt, the face

of universal nature undergoes.

fast falls a fleecy shower; the downy flakes,

descending and with never-ceasing lapse

softly alighting upon all below,

assimilate all objects. earth receives

gladly the thickening mantle, and the green

and tender blade, that feared the chilling blast,

escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.

in such a world, so thorny, and where none

finds happiness unblighted, or if found,

without some thistly sorrow at its side,

it seems the part of wisdom, and no sin

against the law of love, to measure lots

with less distinguished than ourselves, that thus

we may with patience bear our moderate ills,

and sympathise with others, suffering more.

ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks

in ponderous boots beside his reeking team;

the wain goes heavily, impeded sore

by congregating loads adhering close

to the clogged wheels, and, in its sluggish pace,

noiseless appears a moving hill of snow.

the toiling steeds expand the nostril wide,

while every breath, by respiration strong

forced downward, is consolidated soon

upon their jutting chests. he, formed to bear

the pelting brunt of the tempestuous night,

with half-shut eyes, and puckered cheeks, and teeth

presented bare against the storm, plods on;

one hand secures his hat, save when with both

he brandishes his pliant length of whip,

resounding oft, and never heard in vain.

oh happy, and, in my account, denied

that sensibility of pain with which

refinement is endued, thrice happy thou!

thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed

the piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired;

the learned finger never need explore

thy vigorous pulse, and the unhealthful east,

that breathes the spleen, and searches every bone

of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee.

thy days roll on exempt from household care,

thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts,

that drag the dull companion to and fro,

thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care.

ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appearest,

yet show that thou hast mercy, which the great,

with needless hurry whirled from place to place,

humane as they would seem, not always show.

poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat,

such claim compassion in a night like this,

and have a friend in every feeling heart.

warmed while it lasts, by labour, all day long

they brave the season, and yet find at eve,

ill clad and fed but sparely, time to cool.

the frugal housewife trembles when she lights

her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear,

but dying soon, like all terrestrial joys;

the few small embers left she nurses well.

and while her infant race with outspread hands

and crowded knees sit cowering o’er the sparks,

retires, content to quake, so they be warmed.

the man feels least, as more inured than she

to winter, and the current in his veins

more briskly moved by his severer toil;

yet he, too, finds his own distress in theirs.

the taper soon extinguished, which i saw

dangled along at the cold finger’s end

just when the day declined, and the brown loaf

lodged on the shelf, half-eaten, without sauce

of sav’ry cheese, or butter costlier still,

sleep seems their only refuge. for alas,

where penury is felt the thought is chained,

and sweet colloquial pleasures are but few.

with all this thrift they thrive not. all the care

ingenious parsimony takes, but just

saves the small inventory, bed and stool,

skillet and old carved chest, from public sale.

they live, and live without extorted alms

from grudging hands, but other boast have none

to soothe their honest pride that scorns to beg,

nor comfort else, but in their mutual love.

i praise you much, ye meek and patient pair,

for ye are worthy; choosing rather far

a dry but independent crust, hard-earned

and eaten with a sigh, than to endure

the rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs

of knaves in office, partial in their work

of distribution; liberal of their aid

to clamorous importunity in rags,

but ofttimes deaf to suppliants who would blush

to wear a tattered garb however coarse,

whom famine cannot reconcile to filth;

these ask with painful shyness, and, refused

because deserving, silently retire.

but be ye of good courage! time itself

shall much befriend you. time shall give increase,

and all your numerous progeny, well trained,

but helpless, in few years shall find their hands,

and labour too. meanwhile ye shall not want

what, conscious of your virtues, we can spare,

nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send.

i mean the man, who when the distant poor

need help, denies them nothing but his name.

but poverty with most, who whimper forth

their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe,

the effect of laziness or sottish waste.

now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad

for plunder; much solicitous how best

he may compensate for a day of sloth,

by works of darkness and nocturnal wrong,

woe to the gardener’s pale, the farmer’s hedge

plashed neatly and secured with driven stakes

deep in the loamy bank. uptorn by strength

resistless in so bad a cause, but lame

to better deeds, he bundles up the spoil—

an ass’s burden,—and when laden most

and heaviest, light of foot steals fast away.

nor does the boarded hovel better guard

the well-stacked pile of riven logs and roots

from his pernicious force. nor will he leave

unwrenched the door, however well secured,

where chanticleer amidst his harem sleeps

in unsuspecting pomp; twitched from the perch

he gives the princely bird with all his wives

to his voracious bag, struggling in vain,

and loudly wondering at the sudden change.

nor this to feed his own. ’twere some excuse

did pity of their sufferings warp aside

his principle, and tempt him into sin

for their support, so destitute; but they

neglected pine at home, themselves, as more

exposed than others, with less scruple made

his victims, robbed of their defenceless all.

cruel is all he does. ’tis quenchless thirst

of ruinous ebriety that prompts

his every action, and imbrutes the man.

oh for a law to noose the villain’s neck

who starves his own; who persecutes the blood

he gave them in his children’s veins, and hates

and wrongs the woman he has sworn to love.

pass where we may, through city, or through town,

village or hamlet of this merry land,

though lean and beggared, every twentieth pace

conducts the unguarded nose to such a whiff

of stale debauch, forth-issuing from the styes

that law has licensed, as makes temperance reel.

there sit involved and lost in curling clouds

of indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor,

the lackey, and the groom. the craftsman there

takes a lethean leave of all his toil;

smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears,

and he that kneads the dough: all loud alike,

all learned, and all drunk. the fiddle screams

plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wailed

its wasted tones and harmony unheard;

fierce the dispute, whate’er the theme; while she,

fell discord, arbitress of such debate,

perched on the sign-post, holds with even hand

her undecisive scales. in this she lays

a weight of ignorance, in that, of pride,

and smiles delighted with the eternal poise.

dire is the frequent curse and its twin sound

the cheek-distending oath, not to be praised

as ornamental, musical, polite,

like those which modern senators employ,

whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame.

behold the schools in which plebeian minds,

once simple, are initiated in arts

which some may practise with politer grace,

but none with readier skill! ’tis here they learn

the road that leads from competence and peace

to indigence and rapine; till at last

society, grown weary of the load,

shakes her encumbered lap, and casts them out.

but censure profits little. vain the attempt

to advertise in verse a public pest,

that, like the filth with which the peasant feeds

his hungry acres, stinks and is of use.

the excise is fattened with the rich result

of all this riot; and ten thousand casks,

for ever dribbling out their base contents,

touched by the midas finger of the state,

bleed gold for ministers to sport away.

drink and be mad then; ’tis your country bids!

gloriously drunk, obey the important call,

her cause demands the assistance of your throats;—

ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.

would i had fallen upon those happier days

that poets celebrate; those golden times

and those arcadian scenes that maro sings,

and sidney, warbler of poetic prose.

nymphs were dianas then, and swains had hearts

that felt their virtues. innocence, it seems,

from courts dismissed, found shelter in the groves;

the footsteps of simplicity, impressed

upon the yielding herbage (so they sing),

then were not all effaced. then speech profane

and manners profligate were rarely found,

observed as prodigies, and soon reclaimed.

vain wish! those days were never: airy dreams

sat for the picture; and the poet’s hand,

imparting substance to an empty shade,

imposed a gay delirium for a truth.

grant it: i still must envy them an age

that favoured such a dream, in days like these

impossible, when virtue is so scarce

that to suppose a scene where she presides

is tramontane, and stumbles all belief.

no. we are polished now. the rural lass,

whom once her virgin modesty and grace,

her artless manners and her neat attire,

so dignified, that she was hardly less

than the fair shepherdess of old romance,

is seen no more. the character is lost.

her head adorned with lappets pinned aloft

and ribbons streaming gay, superbly raised

and magnified beyond all human size,

indebted to some smart wig-weaver’s hand

for more than half the tresses it sustains;

her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form

ill propped upon french heels; she might be deemed

(but that the basket dangling on her arm

interprets her more truly) of a rank

too proud for dairy-work, or sale of eggs;

expect her soon with foot-boy at her heels,

no longer blushing for her awkward load,

her train and her umbrella all her care.

the town has tinged the country; and the stain

appears a spot upon a vestal’s robe,

the worse for what it soils. the fashion runs

down into scenes still rural, but alas,

scenes rarely graced with rural manners now.

time was when in the pastoral retreat

the unguarded door was safe; men did not watch

to invade another’s right, or guard their own.

then sleep was undisturbed by fear, unscared

by drunken howlings; and the chilling tale

of midnight murder was a wonder heard

with doubtful credit, told to frighten babes

but farewell now to unsuspicious nights,

and slumbers unalarmed. now, ere you sleep,

see that your polished arms be primed with care,

and drop the night-bolt. ruffians are abroad,

and the first larum of the cock’s shrill throat

may prove a trumpet, summoning your ear

to horrid sounds of hostile feet within.

even daylight has its dangers; and the walk

through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious once

of other tenants than melodious birds,

or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold.

lamented change! to which full many a cause

inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires.

the course of human things from good to ill,

from ill to worse, is fatal, never fails.

increase of power begets increase of wealth;

wealth luxury, and luxury excess;

excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague

that seizes first the opulent, descends

to the next rank contagious, and in time

taints downward all the graduated scale

of order, from the chariot to the plough.

the rich, and they that have an arm to check

the licence of the lowest in degree,

desert their office; and themselves, intent

on pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus

to all the violence of lawless hands

resign the scenes their presence might protect.

authority itself not seldom sleeps,

though resident, and witness of the wrong.

the plump convivial parson often bears

the magisterial sword in vain, and lays

his reverence and his worship both to rest

on the same cushion of habitual sloth.

perhaps timidity restrains his arm,

when he should strike he trembles, and sets free,

himself enslaved by terror of the band,

the audacious convict whom he dares not bind.

perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure,

he, too, may have his vice, and sometimes prove

less dainty than becomes his grave outside

in lucrative concerns. examine well

his milk-white hand. the palm is hardly clean—

but here and there an ugly smutch appears.

foh! ’twas a bribe that left it. he has touched

corruption. whoso seeks an audit here

propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish,

wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds.

but faster far and more than all the rest

a noble cause, which none who bears a spark

of public virtue ever wished removed,

works the deplored and mischievous effect.

’tis universal soldiership has stabbed

the heart of merit in the meaner class.

arms, through the vanity and brainless rage

of those that bear them, in whatever cause,

seem most at variance with all moral good,

and incompatible with serious thought.

the clown, the child of nature, without guile,

blest with an infant’s ignorance of all

but his own simple pleasures, now and then

a wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair,

is balloted, and trembles at the news.

sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swears

a bible-oath to be whate’er they please,

to do he knows not what. the task performed,

that instant he becomes the serjeant’s care,

his pupil, and his torment, and his jest;

his awkward gait, his introverted toes,

bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks,

procure him many a curse. by slow degrees,

unapt to learn and formed of stubborn stuff,

he yet by slow degrees puts off himself,

grows conscious of a change, and likes it well.

he stands erect, his slouch becomes a walk,

he steps right onward, martial in his air,

his form and movement; is as smart above

as meal and larded locks can make him: wears

his hat or his plumed helmet with a grace,

and, his three years of heroship expired,

returns indignant to the slighted plough.

he hates the field in which no fife or drum

attends him, drives his cattle to a march,

and sighs for the smart comrades he has left.

’twere well if his exterior change were all—

but with his clumsy port the wretch has lost

his ignorance and harmless manners too.

to swear, to game, to drink, to show at home

by lewdness, idleness, and sabbath-breach,

the great proficiency he made abroad,

to astonish and to grieve his gazing friends,

to break some maiden’s and his mother’s heart,

to be a pest where he was useful once,

are his sole aim, and all his glory now!

man in society is like a flower

blown in its native bed. ’tis there alone

his faculties expanded in full bloom

shine out, there only reach their proper use.

but man associated and leagued with man

by regal warrant, or self-joined by bond

for interest sake, or swarming into clans

beneath one head for purposes of war,

like flowers selected from the rest, and bound

and bundled close to fill some crowded vase,

fades rapidly, and by compression marred

contracts defilement not to be endured.

hence chartered boroughs are such public plagues,

and burghers, men immaculate perhaps

in all their private functions, once combined,

become a loathsome body, only fit

for dissolution, hurtful to the main.

hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin

against the charities of domestic life,

incorporated, seem at once to lose

their nature, and, disclaiming all regard

for mercy and the common rights of man,

build factories with blood, conducting trade

at the sword’s point, and dyeing the white robe

of innocent commercial justice red.

hence too the field of glory, as the world

misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array,

with all the majesty of thundering pomp,

enchanting music and immortal wreaths,

is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught

on principle, where foppery atones

for folly, gallantry for every vice.

but slighted as it is, and by the great

abandoned, and, which still i more regret,

infected with the manners and the modes

it knew not once, the country wins me still.

i never framed a wish or formed a plan

that flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss,

but there i laid the scene. there early strayed

my fancy, ere yet liberty of choice

had found me, or the hope of being free.

my very dreams were rural, rural too

the first-born efforts of my youthful muse,

sportive, and jingling her poetic bells

ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers.

no bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned

to nature’s praises. heroes and their feats

fatigued me, never weary of the pipe

of tityrus, assembling as he sang

the rustic throng beneath his favourite beech.

then milton had indeed a poet’s charms:

new to my taste, his paradise surpassed

the struggling efforts of my boyish tongue

to speak its excellence; i danced for joy.

i marvelled much that, at so ripe an age

as twice seven years, his beauties had then first

engaged my wonder, and admiring still,

and still admiring, with regret supposed

the joy half lost because not sooner found.

thee, too, enamoured of the life i loved,

pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit

determined, and possessing it at last

with transports such as favoured lovers feel,

i studied, prized, and wished that i had known,

ingenious cowley: and though now, reclaimed

by modern lights from an erroneous taste,

i cannot but lament thy splendid wit

entangled in the cobwebs of the schools.

i still revere thee, courtly though retired,

though stretched at ease in chertsey’s silent bowers,

not unemployed, and finding rich amends

for a lost world in solitude and verse.

’tis born with all. the love of nature’s works

is an ingredient in the compound, man,

infused at the creation of the kind.

and though the almighty maker has throughout

discriminated each from each, by strokes

and touches of his hand, with so much art

diversified, that two were never found

twins at all points—yet this obtains in all,

that all discern a beauty in his works,

and all can taste them: minds that have been formed

and tutored, with a relish more exact,

but none without some relish, none unmoved.

it is a flame that dies not even there,

where nothing feeds it. neither business, crowds,

nor habits of luxurious city life,

whatever else they smother of true worth

in human bosoms, quench it or abate.

the villas, with which london stands begirt

like a swarth indian with his belt of beads,

prove it. a breath of unadulterate air,

the glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer

the citizen, and brace his languid frame!

even in the stifling bosom of the town,

a garden in which nothing thrives, has charms

that soothe the rich possessor; much consoled

that here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,

of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well

he cultivates. these serve him with a hint

that nature lives; that sight-refreshing green

is still the livery she delights to wear,

though sickly samples of the exuberant whole.

what are the casements lined with creeping herbs,

the prouder sashes fronted with a range

of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,

the frenchman’s darling? are they not all proofs

that man, immured in cities, still retains

his inborn inextinguishable thirst

of rural scenes, compensating his loss

by supplemental shifts, the best he may?

the most unfurnished with the means of life,

and they that never pass their brick-wall bounds

to range the fields, and treat their lungs with air,

yet feel the burning instinct: over-head

suspend their crazy boxes planted thick

and watered duly. there the pitcher stands

a fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there;

sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets

the country, with what ardour he contrives

a peep at nature, when he can no more.

hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease

and contemplation, heart-consoling joys

and harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode

of multitudes unknown, hail rural life!

address himself who will to the pursuit

of honours, or emolument, or fame,

i shall not add myself to such a chase,

thwart his attempts, or envy his success.

some must be great. great offices will have

great talents. and god gives to every man

the virtue, temper, understanding, taste,

that lifts him into life, and lets him fall

just in the niche he was ordained to fill.

to the deliverer of an injured land

he gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart

to feel, and courage to redress her wrongs;

to monarchs dignity, to judges sense;

to artists ingenuity and skill;

to me an unambitious mind, content

in the low vale of life, that early felt

a wish for ease and leisure, and ere long

found here that leisure and that ease i wished.