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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 pow'rs.

No bard could please me but whose lyre was tun'd
To Nature's praifes. Heroes and their feats
Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe
Of Tityrus, assembling, as he fang,
The ruftic throng beneath his fav'rite beech.
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms :
New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'd
The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue
To speak its excellence. I danc'd for joy.
I marvel'd much that, at so ripe an age
As twice sev'n years, his beauties had then first
Engag'd my wonder; and, admiring still,
And still admiring, with regret suppos'd
The joy half loft because not fooner found.

There, too, enamour'd of the life I lov'd,

Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit

Determin'd, and possessing it at last
With transports such as favour'd lovers feel,
I studied, priz'd, and wish'd that I had known,
Ingenious Cowley! and, though now reclaim'd
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 retir'd;
Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's filent bow'rs,
Not unemploy'd; and finding rich amends

For a loft world in folitude and verse.

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'Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works

Is an ingredient in the compound man,

Infus'd at the creation of the kind.

And, though th' 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 difcern a beauty in his works,

And all can taste them: minds that have been form'd

And tutor'd, with a relish more exact,

But none without some relish, none unmov'd.

It is a flame that dies not even there,

Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds,

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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 fwarth Indian with his belt of beads,
Prove it. A breath of unadult'rate air,
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer
The citizen, and brace his languid frame!
Ev'n in the stifling bofom of the town,
A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms
That foothe the rich possessor; much confol'd,
That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,
Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well

These serve him with a hint

He cultivates.
That Nature lives; that fight-refreshing green
Is still the liv'ry she delights to wear,
Though fickly famples of th' exub'rant whole.
What are the casements lin'd 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, immur'd in cities, still retains

His inborn inextinguishable thirst
Of rural scenes, compenfating his loss
By supplemental shifts, the best he may?
The most unfurnish'd 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 water'd duly. There the pitcher stands

* Mignonnette.

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 cafe,

And contemplation, heart-confoling joys
And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd 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 fuch a chase,
Thwart his attempts, or envy his success.
Some must be great. Great offices will have
Great talents. And God gives to ev'ry man
The virtue, temper, understanding, taste,

That lifts him into life; and lets him fall

Just in the niche he was ordain'd to fill.

To the deliv'rer of an injur'd land

He gives a tongue t' enlarge upon, an heart

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