The ARBOUR: An ODE to CONTENTMENT.

By Mr. THOMAS COLE.

O thefe lone fhades, where Peace delights to dwell,
May Fortune oft permit me to retreat;

Here bid the world, with all its cares, farewel,

And leave its pleasures to the rich and great.

Oft as the fummer's fun fhall cheer this scene,
With that mild gleam which points his parting ray,
Here let my foul enjoy each eve ferene,

Here share its calm, 'till life's declining day.

No gladfome image then should 'fcape my fight, From these gay flow'rs, which border near my eye, To yon bright cloud, that decks, with richest light, The gilded mantle of the western sky.

With ample gaze, I'd trace that ridge remote,
Where op'ning cliffs difclose the boundless main;
With earnest ken, from each low hamlet note
The steeple's fummit peeping o'er the plain.

What various works that rural landscape fill,
Where mingling hedge-rows beauteous fields inclofe;
And prudent Culture, with industrious skill,
Her chequer'd scene of crops and fallows fhows!

How should I love to mark that riv'let's maze,
Through which it works its untaught courfe along;
Whilft near its graffy banks the herd fhall graze,
And blithsome milkmaid chaunt her thoughtless fong!

Still would I note the fhades of length'ning sheep,
As scatter'd o'er the hill's flant brow they rove;
Still note the day's laft glimm'ring luftre creep
From off the verge of yonder upland grove.

Nor fhould my leifure feldom wait to view

The flow-wing'd rooks in homeward train fucceed; Nor yet forbear the fwallow to pursue,

With quicker glance, clofe fkimming o'er the mead.

But mostly here thould I delight t' explore

The bounteous laws of Nature's myftic pow'r; Then muse on him who bleffeth all her store,

And give to folemn thoughts the fober hour

Let Mirth unenvy'd laugh with proud disdain, And deem it spleen one moment thus to waste; If so she keep far hence her noisy train,

Nor interrupt thofe joys fhe cannot taste.

Far fweeter streams fhall flow from Wisdom's fpring,
Than the receives from Folly's costlieft bowl;
And what delights can her chief dainties bring,
Like those which feast the heavenly-pensive foul?

Hail Silence then! be thou my frequent gueft;
For thou art wont my gratitude to raise,
As high as wonder can the theme fuggest,
Whene'er I meditate my Maker's praise.

What joy for tutor'd Piety to learn,

All that my chriftian folitude can teach, Where weak-ey'd Reafon's felf may well difcern Each clearer truth the gofpel deigns to preach?

No object here but may convince the mind,

Of more than thoughtful honesty shall need; Nor can Sufpenfe long question here to find

Sufficient evidence to fix its creed.

'Tis God that gives this bow'r its aweful gloom;
His arched verdure does its roof invest;

He breathes the life of fragrance on its bloom;
And with his kindness makes its owner bleft.

Oh! may the guidance of thy grace attend
The use of all thy bounty shall bestow;
Left folly should mistake its facred end,
Or vice convert it into means of woe.

Incline and aid me still my life to steer,

As confcience dictates what to fhun or choose;
Nor let my heart feel anxious hope or fear,
For aught this world can give me or refuse.

Then shall not wealth's parade one wish excite,
For wretched ftate to barter peace away;
Nor vain ambition's lure my pride invite,
Beyond Contentment's humble path to stray.

What though thy wisdom may my lot deny,
The treasur'd plenty freely to dispense;
Yet well thy goodness can that want fupply

With larger portions of benevolence.

And

And fure the heart that wills the gen'rous deed,
May all the joys of Charity command;

For fhe best loves from notice to recede,

And deals her unfought gifts with fecret hand.

Then will I fometimes bid my fancy steal,
That unclaim'd wealth no property restrains;
Soothe with fictitious aid my friendly zeal,
And realize each godly act fhe feigns.

So fhall I gain the gold without alloy;

Without oppreffion, toil, or treach'rous fnares;
So fhall I know its ufe, its pow'r employ,
And yet avoid its dangers and its cares.

And spite of all that boastful wealth can do,

In vain would Fortune strive the rich to bless, Were they not flatter'd with fome diftant view Of what the ne'er can give them to poffefs.

E'en Wisdom's high conceit great wants would feel,
If not supply'd from Fancy's boundless store
And nought but shame makes pow'r itself conceal,
That fhe, to fatisfy, must promise more.

VOL. VI.

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