Where early larks best tell the morning light,
And only Philomel disturbs the night;
'Midft gardens here my humble pile fhall rife,
With fweets furrounded of ten thoufand dies ;
All favage where th' embroider'd gardens end,
The haunt of echoes fhall my woods afcend;
And oh! if heaven th' ambitious thought approve,
A rill shall warble cross the gloomy grove,
A little rill, o'er pebbly beds convey'd,
Gush down the steep, and glitter thro' the glade.
What cheering fcents those bordering banks exhale!
How loud that heifer lows from yonder vale!
That thrush how fhrill! his note fo clear, fo high,
He drowns each feather'd minstrel of the sky.
Here let me trace beneath the purpled morn,
The deep-mouth'd beagle, and the fprightly horn;
Or lure the trout with well-diffembled flies,
Or fetch the fluttering partridge from the fkies.
Nor fhall thy hand difdain to crop the vine,
The downy peach, or flavour'd nectarine;
Or rob the bee-hive of its golden hoard,
And bear th' unbought luxuriance to thy board.
Sometimes my books by day fhall kill the hours,
While, from thy needle, rise the filken flowers;
And thou, by turns, to ease my feeble fight,
Refume the volume, and deceive the night.
Oh! when I mark thy twinkling eyes oppreft,
Soft whispering, let me warn my love to reft;
Then watch thee, charm'd, while fleep locks every
And to sweet heaven commend thy innocence. [sense,
Thus reign'd our fathers o'er the rural fold,
Wife, hale, and honeft, in the days of old;
Till courts arofe, where substance pays for fhow,
And fpecious joys are bought with real woe.
See Flavia's pendants, large, well-fpread, and right,
The ear that wears them hears a fool each night;
Mark how th' embroider'd col'nel sneaks away,
To fhun the withering dame that made him gay;
That knave, to gain a title, loft his fame;
That rais'd his credit by a daughter's fhame;
This coxcomb's ribband cost him half his land;
And oaks, unnumber'd, bought that fool a wand.
Fond man, as all his forrows were too few,
Acquires ftrange wants that nature never knew.
By midnight lamps he emulates the day,
And fleeps, perverse, the cheerful funs away;
From goblets high-emboft his wine must glide,
Round his clos'd fight the gorgeous curtain flide;
Fruits ere their time to grace his pomp must rise,
And three untafted courses glut his eyes.
For this are nature's gentle calls withstood,
The voice of confcience, and the bonds of blood;
This wisdom thy reward for every pain,
And this gay glory all thy mighty gain.
Fair phantoms woo'd and scorn'd from age to age,
Since bards began to laugh, or priests to rage.
And yet, juft curfe on man's afpiring kind,
Prone to ambition, to example blind,
Our childrens children fhall our steps pursue,
And the fame errors be for ever new.
Mean while, in hope a guiltless country fwain,
My reed with warblings cheers th' imagin'd plain:
Hail humble fhades, where truth and filence dwell!
Thou noify town, and faithlefs court farewell!
Farewell ambition, once my darling flame!
The thirst of lucre, and the charm of fame !
In life's by-road, that winds thro' paths unknown,
My days, tho' number'd, fhall be all my own.
Here shall they end, (O! might they twice begin)
And all be white the fates intend to spin..
A POEM IN PRAISE OF THE HORN-BOOK.
WRITTEN UNDER A FIT OF THE GOUT.
Magni magna patrant, nos non nifi ludicra-
-Podagra hæc otia fecit.
Ail antient book, moft venerable code!
Learning's first cradle, and its last abode!
The huge unnumber'd volumes which we fee,
By lazy plagiaries are stolen from thee.
Yet future times, to thy fufficient store,
Shall ne'er presume to add one letter more.
Thee will I fing in comely wainscot bound,
And golden verge enclofing thee around;
The faithful horn before, from age to age,
Preferving thy invaluable page;
Behind, thy patron faint in armour shines,
With fword and lance, to guard thy facred lines:
Beneath his courfer's feet the dragon lies
Transfix'd; his blood thy scarlet cover dies;
Th' inftructive handle's at the bottom fix'd,
Left wrangling critics fhould pervert the text.
Or if to ginger-bread thou shalt descend,
And liquorish learning to thy babes extend;
Or fugar'd plain, o'erspread with beaten gold,
Does the sweet treasure of thy letters hold;
Thou ftill fhall be my fong- Apollo's choir
I fcorn t'invoke; Cadmus my verse inspire:
'Twas Cadmus who the first materials brought
Of all the learning which has fince been taught;
Soon made complete! for mortals ne'er shall know
More than contain'd of old the chrift-cross row;
What mafters dictate, or what doctors preach,
Wife matrons hence, ev'n to our children teach,
But as the name of every plant and flower,
(So common that each peasant knows its power)
Physicians in mysterious cant express,
T'amufe the patient, and inhance their fees;
So from the letters of our native tongue,
Put in Greek fcrauls, a mystery too is fprung;
Schools are erected, puzzling grammars made,
And artful men strike out a gainful trade,
Strange characters adorn the learned gate,
And heedlefs youth catch at the shining bait.
The pregnant boys the noisy charms declare,
And Tau's, and Delta's, make their mothers ftare;
Th' uncommon founds amaze the vulgar ear,
And what's uncommon never cofts too dear.
Yet in all tongues the Horn-book is the same,
Taught by the Grecian fage, or English dame.
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