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Such feast might prove more fatal than the waves, Untam’d, untractable, no harvests wave:
Than war or famine. While the vital fire

Pomona bates them, and the clownish god
Burns feebly, heap not the green fuel on ;

Who tends the garden. In this frozen world But prudently foment the wandering spark

Such cooling gifts were vain: a fitter meal With what the soonest feeds its kindred touch: Is earn'd with ease ; for here the fruitful spawn Be frugal ev'n of that: a little give

Of ocean swarms, and heaps their genial board At first; that kindled, add a little more;

With generous fare and luxury profuse. Till, by deliberate nourishing, the flame

These are their bread, the only bread they know; Reviv'd, with all its wonted vigour glows.

These, and their willing slave the deer that crops But though the two (the full and the jejune) The shrubby herbage on their meagre hills. Extremes have each their vice; it much avails Girt by the burning zone, not thus the south Ever with gentle tide to ebb and flow

Her swarthy sons in either Ind maintains : From this to that: so nature learns to bear

Or thirsty Libya; from whose fervid loins Whatever chance or headlong appetite

The lion bursts, and every fiend that roams May bring. Besides, a meagre day subdues Th' affrighted wilderness. The mountain herd, The cruder clods by sloth or luxury

Adust and dry, no sweet repast affords: Collected, and unloads the wheels of life.

Nor does the tepid main such kinds produce, Sometimes a coy aversion to the feast

So perfect, so delicious, as the shoals Comes on, while yet no blacker omen lowers; Of icy Zembla. Rashly where the blood Then is a time to shun the tempting board,

Brews feverish frays; where scarce the tubes sustain Were it your natal or your nuptial day.

Its tumid fervour and tempestuous course;
Perhaps a fast so seasonable starves

Kind nature tempts not to such gifts as these.
The latent seeds of woe, which, rooted once, But here in livid ripeness melts the grape :
Might cost you labour. But the day return'd Here, finish'd by invigorating suns,
Of festal luxury, the wise indulge

Through the green shade the golden orange glows; Most in the tender vegetable breed:

Spontaneous here the turgid melon yields Then chiefly, when the summer beams inflame

A generous pulp: the cocoa swells on high
The brazen heavens; or angry Sirius sheds

With milky riches; and in horrid mail
A feverish taint through the still gulf of air. The crisp ananas wraps its poignant sweets,
The moist cool viands then, and flowing cup, Earth’s vaunted progeny: in ruder air
From the fresh dairy virgin's liberal hand, (world Too coy to flourish, even too proud to live;
Will save your head from harm, though round the

Or hardly rais'd by artificial fire
The dreaded Causos roll his wasteful fires.

To vapid life. Here with a mother's smile
Pale humid winter loves the generous board, Glad Amalthea pours her copious horn.
The meal more copious, and a warmer fare:

Here buxom Ceres reigns: th' autumnal sea
And longs, with old wood and old wine, to cheer In boundless billows fluctuates o'er their plains.
His quaking heart. The seasons which divide What suits the climate best, what suits the men,
Th’empires of heat and cold (by neither claim’d, Nature profuses most, and most the taste
Influenc'd by both), a middle regimen

Demands. The fountain, edg'd with racy wine Impose. Through autumn's languishing domain Or acid fruit, bedews their thirsty souls. Descending, nature by degress invites

The breeze eternal breathing round their limbs To glowing luxury. But from the depth

Supports in else intolerable air: Of winter, when th’ invigorated year

While the cool palm, the plaintain, and the grove Emerges; when Favonius flush'd with love, That waves on gloomy Lebanon, assuage Toyful and young, in every breeze descends The torrid hell that beams upon their heads. More warm and wanton on lois kindling bride; Now come, ye Naiads, to the fountains lead; Then, shepherds, then begin to spare your flocks ; Now let me wander through your gelid reign. And learn, with wise humanity, to check

I burn to view th' enthusiastic wilds The lust of blood. Now pregnant earth commits By mortal else untrod. I hear the din A various offspring to th' indulgent sky:

Of waters thund'ring o'er the ruin'd cliffs. Now bounteous nature feeds with lavish hand

With holy reverence I approach the rocks, The prone creation; yields what once suffic'd Whence glide the streams renown’din ancient song, Their dainty sovereign, when the world was young: Here from the desert down the rumbling steep Ere yet the barbarous thirst of blood had seiz'd First springs the Nile; here bursts the sounding Po The human breast.—Each rolling month matures In angry waves; Euphrates hence devolves The food that suits it most; so does each clime. A mighty flood to water half the east; Far in the horrid realms of winter, where

And there, in Gothic solitude reclin'd, Th' establish'd oceau heaps a monstrous waste The cheerless Tanais pours his hoary urn. Of shining rocks and mountains to the pole; What solemn twilight! What stupendous shades There lives a hardy race, whose plainest wants Enwrap these infant floods! Through every nerve Relentless earth, their cruel stepmother,

A sacred horror thrills, a pleasing fear Regards not. On the waste of iron fields,

Glides o'er, my frame. The forest deepens round;

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And more gigantic still th' impending trees The food, or gives the chyle so soon to flow.
Stretch their extravagant arms athwart the gloom. But where the stomach, indolent and cold,
Are these the coufines of some fairy world? Toys with its duty, animate with wine
A land of genii? Say, beyond these wilds

Th’insipid stream: though golden Ceres yields
What unknown nations :—if indeed beyond

A more voluptuous, a more sprightly draught; Aught habitable lies. And whither leads,

Perhaps more active. Wines unmix’d, and all
To what strange regions, or of bliss or pain,

The gluey floods that from the vex'd abyss
That subterraneous way? Propitious maids, Of fermentation spring; with spirit fraught,
Conduct me, while with fearful steps I tread And furious with intoxicating fire;
This trembling ground. The task remains to sing Retard concoction, and preserve unthaw'd
Your gifts (so Pæon, so the powers of health Th’ embodied mass. You see what countless years,
Command) to praise your crystal element:

Embalm'd in fiery quintessence of wine,
The chief ingredient in heaven's various works; The puny wonders of the reptile world,
Whose flexile genius sparkles in the gem,

The tender rudiments of life, the slim Grows firm in oak, and fugitive in wine;

Unravellings of minute anatomy, The vehicle, the source, of nutriment

Maintain their texture, and unchang'd remain. And life, to all that vegetate or live.

We curse not wine: the vile excess we blame;
O comfortable streams! With eager lips

More fruitful than th' accumulated board
And trembling hand the languid thirsty quaff Of pain and misery. For the subtle draught
New life in you; fresh vigour fills their veins. Faster and surer swells the vital tide;
No warmer cups the rural ages knew;

And with more active poison, than the floods
None warıner sought the sires of human kind. Of grosser crudity convey, pervades
Happy in temperate peace ! Their equal days The far remote meanders of our frame.
Felt not th' alternate fits of feverish mirth,

Ah! sly deceiver! Branded o'er and o'er,
And sick dejection. Still serene and pleas'd, Yet still believ'd! Exuluing o'er the wreck
They knew no pains but what the tender soul Of sober vows !—But the Parnasian maids
With pleasure yields to, and would ne'er forget. Another time perhaps shall sing the joys,
Blest with divine immunity from ails,

The fatal charms, the many woes of wine; Long centuries they liv'd; their only fate

Perhaps its various tribes, and various powers. Was ripe old age, and rather sleep than death. Meantime, I would not always dread the bowl, Oh! could those worthies from the world of gods Nor every trespass shun. The feverish strife, Return to visit their degenerate sons,

Rous'd by the rare debauch, subdues, expels
How would they scorn the joys of modern time, The loitering crudities that burden life;
With all our art and toil improv'd to pain!

And, like a torrent full and rapid, clears
Too happy they! but wealth brought luxury, Th' obstructed tubes. Besides, this restless world
And luxury on sloth begot disease. [disdain Is full of chances, which by habit's power

Learn temperance, friends; and hear without To learn to bear is easier than to shuo.
The choice of water. Thus the Coan sage

Ah! when ambition, meagre love of gold,
Opin’d, and thus the learn’d of every school. Or sacred country calls, with mellowing wine
What least of foreign principles partakes

To moisten well the thirsty suffrages;
Is best: The lightest then; what bears the touch Say how, unseason'd to the midnight frays
Of fire the least, and soonest mounts in air;

Of Comus and his rout, wilt thou contend
The most insipid; the most void of smell.

With Centaurs long to hardy deeds inur’d?
Such the rude mountain from his horrid sides Then learn to revel; but by slow degrees:
Pours down; such waters in the sandy vale

By slow degrees the liberal arts are won;
For ever boil, alike of winter frosts
And summer's heat secure. The crystal stream,

And Hercules grew strong. But when you smooth
Through rocks resounding, or for many a mile

The brows of care, indulge your festive vein O'er the chaf’d pebbles hurl'd, yields wholesome,

In cups by well-inform'd experience found

The least your bane: and only with your friends. pure, Avd mellow draughts ; except when winter thaws,

There are sweet follies; frailties to be seen And half the mountains melt into the tide.

By friends alone, and men of generous minds.

Oh! seldom may the fated lours return
Though thirst were e'er so resolute, avoid
The sordid lake, and all such drowsy floods

Of drinking deep! I would not daily taste,

Except when life declines, even sober cups. As fill from Lethe Belgia's slow canals; (With rest corrupt, with vegetation green;

Weak withering age no rigid law forbids,

With frugal nectar, smooth and slow with balm, Squalid with generation, and the birth

The sapless habit daily to bedew, of little monsters ;) till the power of fire

And give the hesitating wheels of life
Has from profane embraces disengag'd
The violated lymph. The virgin stream

Gliblier to play. But youth has better joys:

And is it wise when youth with pleasure flows, In boiling wastes its finer soul in air.

To squander the reliefs of age and pain ! Nothing like simple element dilutes

What dextrous thousands, just within the goal

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EXERCISE.

ARMSTRONG

Between creation and abhorr'd decay:
Of wild debauch, direct their nightly course!

It ever did; perhaps and ever will.
Perhaps no sickly qualms bedim their days,

New worlds are still emerging from the deep;
No morning admonitions shock the head.
But ah! what woes remain! Life rolls apace, The old descending, in their turns to rise.
And that incurable disease old age,

BOOK III.
In youthful bodies more severely felt,
More sternly active, shakes their blasted prime:
Except kind nature by some hasty blow

Through various toils th’adventurous Muse has past;
Prevent the lingering fates. For know, whate'er But half the toil, and more than half, remains.
Beyond its natural fervour hurries on

Rude is her theme, and hardly fit for song;
The sanguine tide; whether the frequent bowl,

Plain, and of little ornament; and I
High-season'd fare, or exercise to toil

But little practis'd in th' Aonian arts.
Protracted; spurs to its last stage tir'd life,

Yet not in vain such labours have we tried,
And sows the temples with untimely snow.

If aught these lays the fickle health confirm.
When life is new, the ductile fibres feel

To you, ye delicate, I write; for you
The heart's increasing force; and, day by day, I tame my youth to philosophic cares,
The growth advances: till the larger tubes,

And grow still paler by the midnight lamp.
Acquiring (from their elemental veins,

Not to debilitate with timorous rules
Condens’d to solid chords) a firmer tone,

A hardy frame; nor needlessly to brave
Sustain, and just sustain, th’impetuous blood. Inglorious dangers, proud of mortal strength;
Here stops the growth. Witli overbearing pulse Is all the lesson that in wholesome years
And pressure, still the great destroy the small; Concerns the strong. His care were ill bestow'd
Still with the ruins of the small grow strong. Who would with warm effeminacy nurse
Life glows mean time; amid the grinding force The thriving oak, which on the mountain's brow
Of viscous fluids and elastic tubes,

Bears all the blasts that sweep the wint'ry heav'n.
Its various functions vigorously are plied

Behold the labourer of the glebe, who toils
By strong machinery; and in solid health

In dust, in rain, in cold and sultry skies;
The man confirm'd long triumphs o'er disease. Save but the grain from mildews and the flood,
But the full ocean ebbs: there is a point,

Nought anxious he what sickly stars ascend.
By nature fix'd, whence life must downward tend. He knows no laws by Esculapius given;
For still the beating tide consolidates

He studies none. Yet him nor midnight fogs
The stubborn vessels, more reluctant still

Infest, nor those envenom'd shasts that ily
To the weak throbs of th’ill-supported heart. When rabid Sirius fires th' autumnal noon.
This languishing, these strength'ning by degrees His habit pure with plain and temperate meals,
To hard, unyielding, unelastic bone,

Robust with labour, and by custom steel'd
Through tedious channels the congealing flood To every casualty of varied life;
Crawls lazily, and hardly wanders on;

Serene he bears the peevish eastern blast,
It loiters still: and now it stirs no more.

And uninfected breathes the mortal south.
This is the period few attain; the death

Such the reward of rude and sober life;
Of nature; thus (so heav'n ordain’d it) life

Of labour such. By health the peasant's toil
Destroys itself; and could these laws have chang'd, Is well repaid; if exercise were pain
Nestor might now the fates of Troy relate;

Indeed, and temperance pain. By arts like these
And Homer live immortal as his song. (stood Laconia nurs'd of old her hardy sons;

What does not fade? The tower that long had And Rome's unconquer'd legions urg'd their way,
The crush of thunder and the warring winds, Unhurt, through every toil in every clime.
Shook by the slow but sure destroyer time,

Toil, and be strong. By toil the flaccid nerves
Now bangs in doubtful ruins o'er its base.

Grow firm, and gain a more compacted tone;
And finty pyramids, and walls of brass,

The greener juices are by toil subdu’d,
Descend: the Babylonian spires are sunk;

Mellow'd, and subtiliz'd; the vapid old
Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down.

Expellid, and all the rancour of the blood.
Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones,

Come, my companions, ye who feel the charms
And tottering empires crusli by their own weight. Of nature and the year; come, let us stray
This huge rotundity we tread grows old;

Where chance or fancy leads our roving walk:
And all those worlds that roll around the sun, Come, while the soft voluptuous breezes fan
The sun himself, shall die; and ancient night The fleecy heavens, enwrap the limbs in balm,
Again involve the desolate abyss:

And shed a charming languor o'er the soul.
Till the great Father through the lifeless gloom Nor when bright winter sows with prickly frost
Extend bis arm to light another world,

The vigorous ether, in unmanly warmth
And bid new planets roll by other laws.

Indulge at home; nor even when Eurus' blasts
For through the regions of unbounded space, This way and that convolve the lab’ring woods,
Where unconfin’d Omnipotence has room,

My liberal walks, save when the skies in rain Being, in various systems, fluctuates still

Or fogs relent, no season should confine

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Or to the cloister'd gallery or arcade.

Attain'd and equal to his moderate mind;
Go, climb the mountain; from th' ethereal source His life approv'd by all the wise and good,
Imbibe the recent gale. The cheerful morn Even envied by the vain) the peaceful grores
Beams o'er the hills; go mount th’ exulting steed. Of Epicurus, from this stormy world,
Already, see, the deep-mouth'd beagles catch Receive to rest; of all ungrateful cares
The tainted mazes; and, on eager sport

Absolv'd, and sacred from the selfish crowd.
Intent with emulous impatience try

Happiest of men! if the same soil invites Each doubtful trace. Or, if a nobler prey

A chosen few, companions of his youth, Delight you more, go chase the desperate deer; Once fellow-rakes perhaps, now rural friends; And through its deepest solitudes awake

With whom in easy commerce to pursue
The vocal forest with the jovial horn.

Nature's free charms, and vie for sylvan fame:
But if the breathless chase o'er hill and dale A fair ambition; void of strife or guile,
Exceed your strength ; a sport of less fatigue, Or jealousy, or pain to be outdone.
Not less delightful the prolific stream

Who plans th'enchanted garden, who directs
Affords. The crystal rivulet, that o'er

The visto best, and best conducts the stream; A stony channel rolls its rapid maze,

Whose groves

the fastest thicken and ascend; Swarms with the silver fry. Such, through the Whom first the welcome spring salutes; who shows bounds

The earliest bloom, the sweetest proudest charms
Of pastoral Stafford, runs the brawling Trent; Of Flora ; who best gives Pomona's juice
Such Eden, sprung from Cumbrian mountains; such To match the sprightly genius of champaign.
The Esk, o'erhung with woods; and such the stream Thrice happy days! in rural business pasl:
On whose Arcadian banks I first drew air,

Blest winter nights! when as the genial fire
Liddal; till now, except in Doric lays

Cheers the wide hall, his cordial family Tun'd to her murmurs by her love-sick swains, With soft domestic arts the hours beguile, Unknown in song: though not a purer stream,

And pleasing talk that starts no timorous fame, Through meads more flowery or more romantic With witless wantonness to hunt it down: groves,

Or through the fairy land of tale or song Rolls toward the western main. Hail, sacred flood! Delighted wander, in fictitious fates May still thy hospitable swains be blest

Engag'd and all that strikes humanity: In rural innocence; thy mountains still

Till lost in fable, they the stealing hour Teem with the fleecy race; thy tuneful woods

Of timely rest forget. Sometimes at eve For ever flourish; and thy vales look gay

His neighbours lift the latch, and bless unbid With painted meadows, and the golden grain ! His festal roof; while, o'er the light repast, Oft with thy blooming sons, when life was new, And sprightly cups, they mix in social joy; Sportive and petulant, and charm'd with toys, And, through the maze of conversation, trace In thy transparent eddies have I lav’d:

Whate’er amuses or improves the mind. Oft trac'd with patient steps thy fairy banks, Sometimes at eve (for I delight to taste With the well-imitated fly to hook

The native zest and flavour of the fruit, The eager trout, and with the slender line

Where sense grows wild and takes of no manure)
And yielding rod solicit to the shore

The decent, honest, cheerful husbandman
The struggling panting prey; while vernal clouds Should drown his labours in my friendly bowl;
And tepid gales obscur'd the ruffled pool,

And at my table find himself at home.
And from the deeps call'd forth the wanton swarms.
Form'd on the Samian school, or those of ind,

Whate'er you study, in whate'er you sweat,
Indulge your taste.

Some love the manly foils;
There are who think these pastimes scarce humane.

The tennis some; and some the graceful dance. Yet in my mind (and not relentless I)

Others more hardy, range the purple heath,
His life is pure that wears no fouler stains.

Or naked stubble; where from field to field
But if through genuine tenderness of heart,
Or secret want of relish for the game,

The sounding coveys urge their labouring flight;
You shun the glories of the chase, nor care

Eager amid the rising cloud to pour To haunt the peopled stream; the garden yields

The gun's unerring thunder: and there are A soft amusement, an humane delight.

Whom still the meed of the green archer charms.

He chooses best, whose labour entertains
To raise th’ insipid nature of the ground;
Or tame its savage genius to the grace

His vaçant fancy most: the toil you bate
Of careless sweet rusticity, that seems

Fatigues you soon, and scarce improves your limbs. The amiable result of happy chance,

As beauty still has blemish; and the mind

The most accomplish'd its imperfect side;
Is to create; and gives a godlike joy,

Few bodies are there of that happy mould
Which every year improves. Nor thou disdain
To check the lawless riot of the trees,

But some one part is weaker than the rest:

The legs, perhaps, or arms refuse their load, To plant the grove, or turn the barren mould.

Or the chest labours. These assiduously, O happy he! whom, when his years decline,

But gently, in their proper arts employ'd, (His fortune and his fame by worthy means

Acquire a vigour and springy activity

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To which they were not born. But weaker parts The roughening deep expects the storm, as sure Abhor fatigue and violent discipline.

As red Orion mounts the shrouded heaven. Begin with gentle toils; and, as your nerves

In ancient times, when Rome with Athens vied Grow firm, to hardier by just steps aspire.

For polish'd luxury and useful arts, The prudent, even in every moderate walk,

All hot and reeking from th’ Olympic strife, At first but saunter; and by slow degrees

And warm palæstra, in the tepid bath Increase their pace. This doctrine of the wise Th'athletic youth relax'd their weary limbs. Well knows the master of the flying steed.

Soft oils bedew'd them, with the grateful pow'rs First from the goal the manag'd coursers play Of nard and cassia fraught, to soothe and heal On bended reins: as yet the skilful youth

The cherish'd nerves. Our less voluptuous clime Repress their foamy pride; but every breath Not much invites us to such arts as these. The race grows warmer, and the tempest swells; 'Tis not for those, whom gelid skies embrace, Till all the fiery mettle has its way,

And chilling fogs; whose perspiration feels And the thick thunder hurries o'er the plain. Such frequent bars from Eurus and the north; When all at once from indolence to toil

'Tis not for those to cultivate a skin You spring, the fibres by the hasty shock

Too soft; or teach the recremental fume Are tir'd and crack’d, before their unctuous coats,

Too fast to crowd through such precarious ways; Compress'd, can pour the lubricating balm. For through the small arterial mouths, that pierce Besides, collected in the passive veins,

In endless millions the close-woven skin, The purple mass a sudden torrent rolls,

The baser fluids in a constant stream O'erpowers the heart and deluges the lungs Escape, and, viewless, melt into the winds. With dangerous inundation; oft the source

While this eternal, this most copious waste Of fatal woes; a cough that foams with blood, Of blood, degenerate into vapid brine, Asthma and feller peripneumony,

Maintains its wonted measure, all the powers Or the slow minings of the hectic fire.

Of health befriend you, all the wheels of life Th'athletic fool, to whom what heav'n deny'd

With ease and pleasure move : but this restrain'd Of soul, is well compensated in limbs,

Or more or less, so more or less you feel Oft from his rage, or brainless frolic, feels

The functions labour: from this fatal source, His vegetation and brute force decay.

What woes descend is never to be sung. The men of better clay and finer mould

To take their numbers, were to count the sands Know nature, feel the human dignity;

That ride in whirlwind the parch'd Libyan air; And scorn to vie with oxen or with apes.

Or waves that, when the blustering north embroils Pursu'd prolixly, even the gentlest toil

The Baltic, thunder on the German shore. Is waste of health: repose by small fatigue

Subject not then, by soft emollient arts, Is earn'd; and (where your habit is not prone

This grand expense, on which your fates depend, To thaw) by the first moisture of the brows.

To every caprice of the sky; nor thwart The fine and subtle spirits cost too much

The genius of your clime: for from the blood To be profus'd, too much the roscid balm.

Least fickle rise the recremental streams, But when the hard varieties of life

And least obnoxious to the styptic air, [pores. You toil to learn; or try the dusty chase,

Which breathe through straighter and more callous Or the warm deeds of some important day:

The temper'd Scythian hence, half-naked treads Hot from the field, indulge not yet your limbs

His boundless snows, nor rues th’inclement heaven; In wish'd repose; nor court the fanning gale, And hence our painted ancestors defied Nor taste the spring. O! by the sacred tears The cast; nor curs'd, like us, their fickle sky. Of widows, orphans, mothers, sisters, sires,

The body moulded by the clime, endures Forbear! No other pestilence has driven

Th’equator heats, or hyperborean frost: Such myriads o'er th' irremeable deep.

Except by habits foreign to its turn, Why this so fatal, the sagacious Muse

Unwise you counteract its forming pow'r. Through nature's cunning labyrinths could trace: Rude at the first, the winter shocks you less But there are secrets which who knows not now, By long acquaintance: study then your sky, Must, ere he reach them, climb the heapy Alps Form to its manners your obsequious frame, Of science; and devote seven years to toil.

And learn to suffer what you cannot shun: Besides, I would not stun your patient ears

Against the rigours of a damp cold heav'n, With what it little boots you to attain.

To fortify their bodies, some frequent He knows enough, the mariner, who knows The gelid cistern; and, where nought forbids, Where lurk the shelves, and where the whirlpools I praise their dauntless heart: a frame so steel'd boil,

Dreads not the cough, nor those ungenial blasts What signs portend the storm: to subtler minds That breathe the tertian or fell rheumatism; He leaves to scan, from what mysterious cause The nerves so temper’d, never quit their tone; Charybdis rages in th’ lonian wave;

No chronic languors haunt such hardy breasts. Whence those impetuous currents in the main, But all things have their bounds; and he who makes Which neither oar nor sail can stein; and why By daily use the kindest regimen

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