Take this receipt
To annoint thy bait.
Thou that desirest to fish with line and hook,
Be it in poole, in river, or in brook,
To blisse thy bait, and make the fish to bite,
Loe, here's a means, if thou cans't hit it right;
Take gum of life, fine beat, and laid to soak
In oyle, well drawn from that which kills the oak:
Fish where thou wilt, thou shalt have sport thy fill,
When twenty fail, thou shalt be sure to kill.
Probatum.
ART. DCCCLXV. Retirement, a Poetical Frag
IN Vol. VI. p. 346 of this Work I have given some account of Evelyn's Essay on Solitude: the following fragment of a long poem, begun in 1803, would have found a place there, had not the article been already too long.
The fragment of a poem in blank verse.
Ye woods, that underneath your covering wings,
Hide my tir'd frame, all hail! Here Noise and Toil,
Hollow-eyed base Intrigue, and Envy pale,
Black Malice, and envenom'd Calumny,
Dare not disturb the silence of your reign:
Here I can woo lone Quiet, here collect
My scatter'd thoughts, and to my enfeebled mind
Call back new vigour; here can re-arrange
The forms, that now in wild confusion float
On my tumultuous brain. Be present, Muse!
And as the mist withdraws, and every thought
Takes its due shape before the mental eye,
Aid me to paint it in the living song!
Green fields, and whispering trees, and living streams,
And hills and vales, where graze rich herds, and frisk
The new-born lambs, before my fancy play.
O for the pencil dipt in Nature's hues,
Which, guided by sweet Thomson's magic hand,
Touch'd with due brilliance all their glowing charms :
Or thine, more varied Cowper, in whose strain,
Now moral and now gay, now rural scenes
Burst with enchantment on the raptur'd sight!
Where yonder shepherd's hut, that on the knowl.
Crown'd by those ancient elms, which overhang
Its low thatch'd roof, just peeps, there dwell a race
Who see the morning dawn and evening set
In all their glories. Thro' the livelong day
Heaven's purest breezes brace their vigorous limbs:
Labour makes rest delightful: to coarse fare
Keen appetite gives zest; and sound their sleep
On the hard pallet, while the rocking winds,
That whistle thro' their crazy tenement,
But lull them to a more profound repose.
For me had Providence that humbler lot Decreed, methinks my days had happier been, Than now to sickly Indolence a prey,
Wasting with cares, and torn with worldly wrongs.
Then Health had nerv'd my feeble form, and bloom'd
My pallid cheek; and in this languid eye
Sweet Cheerfulness her dancing rays inspir'd.
Gay had I bounded o'er the distant hills,
Breasted the piercing blast, or with the wind
In equal race contended unfatigued!
O then how grateful had the close of Eve
Return'd me to my little shed, the hearth
Bright-blazing, and the lowly couch of straw!
But now, alas, to vain anxiety
I wake, and as the minutes drag along,
Curse the long day, yet no relief at night
Find; for, tho' weary, feverish heats deny
Rest to my aching frame; and Sleep aloof
Hovers, as if in mockery of my prayers.
Ambition treads not in these peaceful haunts,
But Innocence is leagued with truest Joy.
And what can life afford compared with these?
Can rank and riches, splendid palaces,
The gaudy equipage, the liveried slave,
Appease the anxious cares, the guilty pangs,
That lurk within the heart; or lull to rest
Corporeal sickness ?-Short, alas, the reign
Of worldly greatness! Death comes unprepar'd,
Perchance e'en while you stretch the arm to grasp
The bauble, for which years of toil, and crime,
And suffering, have been wasted; when your heir
By a short course of folly undermines
The tottering column of your hard-earn'd fame,
And sinks it in the dust from whence it rose!
Happy is he, who 'cross yon sloping field
Directs the labouring ploughshare, and inhales
The fragrance of the fresh-turn'd soil, till noon
Relieves his weary team, and brings him back
To th' antique hall, which in our grandsire's days
Own'd loftier habitants, and has beheld
Many a bold race of feudal lords expire
'Neath its fantastic roof; for there the board
Spread by the frugal dame affords a feast
More exquisite to him, whom healthy toil
Invigorates, than regal banquets seem
To the poor sickly minion of a court.
O never may I in the tainted air
Of crowded cities, where the din of trade
And the loud clamours of corrupted mobs
Assail my senses, be again immur'd!
I seek these shades to hide my tortur'd head
From an unjust, oppressive, hated world.
The gloom of dark umbrageous boughs; the fresh
And perfum'd odour that the loaded breeze
Bears from the quivering leaves; the pathway cobl,
That takes with soft embrace my aching feet,
Soothe my worn spirit, calm my trembling steps,
And to existence rays of hope recall.
I hear no shout of mobs; I hear no roll
Of rattling cars, bedaub'd with new-got wealth,
And deck'd with purchas'd blood-stain'd coronets,
Thund'ring along the streets, and threat'ning loud
To crush such poor and humble worms as I.
I hear no more the coarse obstreperous din
Of puff'd up lawyers, venal, stupid, fierce,
Blind to all merits but their own, and arm'd
With all a pleader's subtle tricks to close
The door, which thence has open'd to themselves.
I hear no coxcomb Lord, who, having climb'd
By the base arts a tool and minion loves,
Babbles his finical and frothy stuff,
And strives to legislate for all the world.
But wand'ring silent on, a gradual calm
Spreads o'er my heart," there is yet peace for me,"
I cry; and quick my buoyant spirit springs,
And throws in scorn its load of cares away.
Then Fancy rises from lethargic chains,
|