Oldalképek
PDF
ePub

But relaxation of the languid frame,
By soft recumbency of outstretch'd limbs,

Was bliss reserv'd for happier days. So flow

The growth of what is excellent; so hard

T" attain perfection in this nether world.
Thus first neceffity invented stools,

Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs,
And luxury th' accomplish'd SOFA last.

The nurse sleeps sweetly, hir'd to watch the fick,

Whom fnoring she disturbs. As sweetly he
Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour
To fleep within the carriage more secure,
His legs depending at the open door.
Sweet fleep enjoys the curate in his desk,
The tedious rector drawling o'er his head;
And sweet the clerk below. But neither fleep
Of lazy nurse, who snores the fick man dead,
Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour
To flumber in the carriage more secure,
Nor fleep enjoy'd by curate in his desk,
Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet,
Compar'd with the repose the SOFA yields.

Oh may I live exempted (while I live Guiltless of pamper'd appetite obscene) From pangs arthritic, that infest the toe Of libertine excess. The SOFA fuits The gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb, Though on a sOFA, may I never feel : For I have lov'd the rural walk through lanes Of graffy fwarth, clofe cropt by nibbling sheep, And skirted thick with intertexture firm Of thorny boughs; have lov'd the rural walk O'er hills, through vallies, and by rivers' brink, E'er since a truant boy I pass'd my bounds T' enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames; And still remember, nor without regret Of hours that forrow fince has much endear'd, How oft, my flice of pocket store confum'd, Still hung'ring, pennyless and far from home, I fed on fcarlet hips and stony haws, Or blushing crabs, or berries, that imboss The bramble, black as jet, or floes austere. Hard fare! but fuch as boyish appetite Disdains not; nor the palate, undeprav'd By culinary arts, unfav'ry deems. No SOFA then awaited my return;

Nor SOFA then I needed. Youth repairs
His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil
Incurring fhort fatigue; and, though our years

As life declines speed rapidly away,
And not a year but pilfers as he goes

Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep;
A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees
Their length and colour from the locks they spare;
Th' elastic spring of an unwearied foot
That mounts the style with eafe, or leaps the fence,
That play of lungs, inhaling and again
Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes
Swift pace or fteep ascent no toil to me,
Mine have not pilfer'd yet; nor yet impair'd
My relish of fair profpect; scenes that footh'd
Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find
Still foothing, and of pow'r to charm me still.
And witness, dear companion of my walks,
Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive
Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure fuch as love,
Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth
And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire-
Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.
Thou know'st my praise of nature most fincere,

And that my raptures are not conjur'd up
To serve occasions of poetic pomp,
But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our pace

Has flacken'd to a pause, and we have born

The ruffling wind, scarce confcious that it blew, While admiration, feeding at the eye, And ftill unsated, dwelt upon the scene. Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd The diftant plough flow moving, and beside His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track, The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy! Here Ouse, flow winding through a level plain Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, Conducts the eye along his finuous course Delighted. There, faft rooted in their bank, Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms, That screen the herdsman's folitary hut; While far beyond, and overthwart the stream That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, The floping land recedes into the clouds; Displaying on its varied fide the grace Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r, Tall spire, from which the found of cheerful bells

A

Just undulates upon the lift'ning ear,
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily view'd,

Please daily, and whose novelty survives

Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that I describe.

Nor rural fights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind:
Unnumber'd branches waving in the blaft,
And all their leaves fast flutt'ring, all at once.
Nor less composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills that flip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their filent course.
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,

تم

« ElőzőTovább »