"Twas here the poets were inspir'd, Here taught the multitude; The brave they here with honour fir'd, That golden age did entertain The thoughts of ruling and of gain None then did envy neighbours wealth, They knew no law nor phyfic then, And if there yet remain to men What bleffings doth this world afford To tempt or bribe defire? Her courtship is all fire and fword, Then welcome, deareft folitude, My great felicity; Though fame are pleas'd to call thee rude, Thou art not fo, but we. Them that do covet only reft, A cottage will fuffice: It is not brave to be poffeft Of earth, but to defpife. 5 Opinion Opinion is the rate of things, From hence our peace doth flow; I have a better fate than kings, Because I think it fo. When all the stormy world doth roar I cannot fear to tumble lower Secure in these unenvied walls Silence and innocence are fafe; While others revel it in state, Let fome in courtship take delight, These never knew a noble flame, Let VOL. II. peace and honour mine. H When When the inviting fpring appears, To Hyde-park let them go, To lofe Spring garden fhow. Let others, nobler, feek to gain But I, refolved from within, In privacy intend to fpin And from this hermitage of mine And nothing that is not divine Shall dare to tempt my joys. There are below but two things good, And only thofe of all I would In this retir'd and humble feat, Free from both war and ftrife, I am not forc'd to make retreat, But chufe to spend my life. SONG SONG XVI. A MORAL THOUGHT. BY DR. HAWKES WORTH. THR HROUGH groves fequefter'd, dark, and still, In filent paths the careless rill, Awhile it plays with circling fweep, And lingering leaves its native plain, Then pours impetuous down the fteep, And mingles with the boundless main. O let my years thus devious glide, Through filent scenes obfcurely calm, When labour tires, and pleasure palls, G BY MR. CHRISTOPHER SMART. ODDESS of eafe, leave Lethes brink, For once endure the pain to think, O fweet Infenfibility! Sifter of Peace and Indolence, Bring mufe, bring numbers foft and flow; Elaborately void of sense, And sweetly thoughtlefs let them flow. Near to fome cowflip-painted mead, Where, Philomel, your notes you breathe, For thee, o Idlenefs! the woes Of life we patiently endure; Thou art the fource whence labour flows, For who'd sustain wars toil and waste, And find a pleafing end in thee? SONG XVIII. ROM the court to the cottage convey me away, FRO For I'm weary of grandeur, and what they call gay: Where pride without measure, And pomp without pleasure, Make life in a circle of hurry decay. Far |