"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, "Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; "Now drooping, woeful wan! like one forlorn, "Or craz❜d with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love.
"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; "Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
"Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he:
“The next, with dirges'due, in fad array,
"Slow thro' the church-way path we faw him borne: "Approach, and read (for thou canft read) the lay "Grav'd on the ftone beneath yon aged thorn:"
HERE refts his head upon the lap of Earth,
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown;
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his foul fincere ;
Heav'n did a recompenfe as largely send :
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear;
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No further feek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repofe,) The bofom of his Father and his God.
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In Folly's maze advance;
Though fingularity and pride
Be call'd our choice, we'll ftep afide,
Nor join the giddy dance.
From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,
Where love our hours employs:
No noify neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,
To spoil our heart-felt joys.
If folid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies;
And they are fools who roam :
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own felves our joys muft flow,
And that dear hut, our home.
Of reft was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing, fhe left,
That fafe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excurfion o'er,
The disappointed bird once more
Explor'd the facred bark.
Though fools fpurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs,
We, who improve his golden hours,
By fweet experience know,
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives, to the tender and the good,
A paradife below.
Our babes fhall richest comforts bring;
If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring
Whence pleasures ever rife:
We'll form their minds, with ftudious care,
To all that manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies.
While they our wifest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, fupport our age,
And crown our hoary hairs:
They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day,
And thus our fondeft loves repay,
And recompenfe our cares.
No borrow'd joys, they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot:
Monarchs! we envy not your fitate;
We look with pity on the great,
And blefs our humbler lot.
Our portion is not large, indeed;
But then how little do we need!
For nature's calls are few:
In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may fuffice,
And make that little do.
We'll therefore relish, with content,
Whate’er kind Providence has sent,
Nor aim beyond our pow'r;
For if our flock be very small,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,
Nor lofe the prefent hour.
To be refign'd when ills betide,
Patient when favours are deny'd,
And pleas'd with favours giv❜n;
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part;
This is that incense of the heart,
Whose fragrance smells to heav'n.
We'll ask no long-protracted treat,
Since winter's life is feldom fweet;
But when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arife,
Nor grudge our fons, with envious eyes,
The relics of our store.
Thus hand and hand, through life we'll go ;
Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe,
With cautious fteps, we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,
And mingle with the dead.
While confcience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel, whisper peace,
And fmooth the bed of death.
"TIS vain, my foul, 'tis impious all,
The human lot to mourn,
That life fo foon must fleet
And duft to duft return.
Alas! from death the terrors fly,
When once 'tis understood;
"Tis nature's call-'tis God's decree-
And is, and muft be, good.
Weary'd his limbs with honeft toil,
And void of cares his breast,
See how the lab'ring hind finks down
Each night to wholesome rest.
No naufeous fumes perplex his fleep,
No guilty ftarts furprize;
The vifions, that his fancy forms,
All free and cheerful rife.
So thou, nor led by lufts aftray,
Nor gall'd with anxious ftrife,
With virtuous industry fulfil
The plain intent of life.
Pass calmly thy appointed day,
And ufefully employ,
And then thou❜rt fure, whate'er fucceed
Is reft, and peace, and joy.
To a BEAUTIFUL SPRING in a VILLAGE.
NCE more, fweet stream! with flow foot wand'ring
I bless thy milky waters, cold and clear.
Efcap'd the flashing of the noontide hours,
With one fresh garland of Pierian flow'rs,
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn,)
My languid hand fhall wreath thy moffy urn.
For not through pathless grove, with murmur rude,
Thou footheft the fad wood-nymph, Solitude:
Nor thine unfeen in cavern depths to dwell,
The hermit-fountain of fome dripping cell!
Pride of the vale! thy useful ftreams fupply
The fcatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks,
With infant uproar, and foul-foothing pranks,
Releas'd from school their little hearts at reft,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve, with pensive look,
Whistling lorn ditties, leans upon his crook ;
Or, ftarting, paufes, with hope-mingled dread,
To lift the much-lov'd maid's accuftom'd tread:
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
Loiters, the long-fill'd pitcher in her hand.
Unboaftful ftream! thy font, with pebbled falls,
The faded form of paft delight recalls,
What time the morning fun of hope arose,
And all was joy; fave when another's woes
A tranfient gloom upon my foul imprefs'd,
Like paffing clouds impictur'd on thy breast.
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,
Or filv'ry stole beneath the pensive moon.
Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,
Or o'er the rough rock burfts, and foams along!
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