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Nature I'll court in her fequefter'd haunts,

By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove,or cell; Where the pois’d lark his evening ditty chaunts, And HEALTH, and PEACE, and CONTEMPLA

TION dwell.
There study shall with soLITUDE recline;

And FRIENDSHIP pledge me to his fellow


And toil and TEMPERANCE sedately twine

The slender cord that fluttering life fuftains : And fearless POVERTY shall guard the door;

And TASTE unspoiled the frugal table spread; And INDUSTRY supply the humble store;

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



IN the barn the tenant cock,

Close to Partlet perch'd on hig!, Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock')

Jocund that the morning's nighi. Swiftly from the mountain's bro'v,

Shadows, nurs’d by night, retire: And the peeping sun-beam, now,

Paints with gold the village ípire.
Philomel forfakes the thorn,

Plaintive where the prates at night;
And the lark, to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight.

From the low-roof'd cottage ridge,

See the chatt'ring swallow 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

Dailies in the dewy dale.
From the balmy sweets, uncloy’d,

(Restless till her task be done) Now, the busy bee's employ'd

Sipping dew before the sun. Trickling through the crevic'd rock,

Where the limpid stream diftills, Sweet refreshment waits the flock

When ’tis sun-drove from the hills. Colin, for the promis'd corn

(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe) Anxious, hears the huntsman's horn,

Boldly founding, drown his pipe. Sweet, - sweet, the warbling throng,

On the white emblossom'd spray! Nature's universal song,

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 rose. 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 sun-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 single sound,

Save the clack of yonder mill. Cattle court the zephyrs bland,

Where the streamlet wanders cool;
Or with languid silence siand

Midway in the marshy pool.
But from mountain, dell, or stream,

Not a flutt'ring zephyr (prings :
Fearful left the nood-tide beam

Scorch its sost, its filken wings. Not a leaf has leave to stir,

Nature's lull'd-ferene-and still! Quiet e’en the shepherd's cur,

Sleeping on the heath-clad hill. Languid is the landscape round,

Till the fresh descending shower,
Grateful to the thirsty ground,

Raises 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 strays

Free,-(the furrow'd task is done), Now the village windows blaze, Burnish'd by the setting fun.

Now he hides behind the hill,

Sinking from a golden sky: Can the pencil's mimic skill,

Copy the refulgent dye? Trudging as the ploughmen go,

(To the smoking hamlet bound) Giant-like their shadows grow,

Lengthen’d o'er the level ground. Where the rising forest spreads,

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 resplendent moon,

Breaking through a parted cloud! Now the hermit howlet peeps

From the barn, or twisted brake: And the blue mist flowly creeps,

Curling on the silver lake.
As the trout, in fpeckled pride,

Playful from its bosom springs;
To the banks, a ruffled tide

Verges in successive rings. Tripping through the filken grafs,

O'er the path-divided dale, Mark the rose complexion’d lass,

With her well-pois’d milking pail. Linnets, with unnumber'd notes,

And the cuckoo-bird with two, Tuning sweet their mellow throats,

Bid the setting sun adieu.

THE COUNTRY-BOX. THE wealthy cit, grown old in trade,

Now wishes for the rural shade, And buckles to his one-horse 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 stool before 'em, And out they jog in due decorum. Scarce past the turnpike half a mile, How all the country seems to smile! And as they flowly jog together, The Cit commends the road and weather ; While Madam doats upon the trees, .Ind longs for ev'ry house she sees; 1dmires its views, its situation, And thus she opens her oration:

What signify the loads of wealth,
Without that richest jewel, health?
Excuse the fondness of a wife,
Who doats upon you

precious life!
Such ceaseless toil, fuch constant care,
Is more than human strength can bear!
One may observe it in your face-
Indeed, my dear, you break apace:
And nothing can your health repair,
But exercise 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 so warm, my dear, as you:
And folks are always apt to fneer-
One would not be out-done my r!

Sir Traffic's name to well apply'd,
Awak'd his brother-merchant's pride,
And Thrifty, who had all his life
Paid utmoft deference to his wife,
Confess'd her argument had reason,
And by th' approaching summer season,

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