BEING, in various systems, fluctuates still Between creation and abhorred decay: It ever did, perhaps, and ever will.
New worlds are still emerging from the deep; The old descending, in their turns to rise.
THROUGH various toils th' adventurous Muse has pass'd; But half the toil, and more than half, remains. Rude is her theme, and hardly fit for song; Plain, and of little ornament; and I But little practised in the Aonian arts. Yet not in vain such labours have we tried, If aught these lays the fickle health confirm. To you, ye delicate, I write; for you I tame my youth to philosophic cares, And grow still paler by the midnight lamps. Not to debilitate with timorous rules A hardy frame; nor needlessly to brave Unglorious dangers, proud of mortal strength, Is all the lesson that in wholesome years Concerns the strong. His care were ill bestowed Who would with warm effeminacy nurse
The thriving oak which on the mountain's brow Bears all the blasts that sweep the wintry heaven.
Behold the labourer of the glebe, who toils In dust, in rain, in cold and sultry skies; Save but the grain from mildews and the flood, Naught anxious he what sickly stars ascend. He knows no laws by Asculapius given;
Yet him nor midnight fogs Infest, nor those envenom'd shafts that fly
When rabid Sirius fires th' autumnal noon. His habit pure with plain and temperate meals, Robust with labour, and by custom steel'd To every casualty of varied life;
Serene he bears the peevish eastern blast, And uninfected breathes the mortal south.
Such the reward of rude and sober life; Of labour such. By health the peasant's toil Is well repaid; if exercise were pain
Indeed, and temperance pain. By arts like these Laconia nursed of old her hardy sons;
And Rome's unconquered legions urged their way, Unhurt, through every toil in every clime.
Toil, and be strong. By toil the flaccid nerves Grow firm, and gain a more compacted tone; The greener juices are by toil subdued, Mellowed, and subtilised; the vapid old Expelled, and all the rancour of the blood. Come, my companions, ye who feel the charms Of Nature and the year; come, let us stray Where chance or fancy leads our roving walk: Come, while the soft voluptuous breezes fan The fleecy heavens, enwrap the limbs in balm, And shed a charming languor o'er the soul. Nor when bright Winter sows with prickly frost The vigorous ether, in unmanly warmth
Indulge at home; nor even when Eurus' blasts This way and that convolve the labouring woods. My liberal walks, save when the skies in rain Or fogs relent, no season should confine
Or to the cloistered gallery or arcade.
Go, climb the mountain; from th' ethereal source
Imbibe the recent gale. The cheerful morn Beams o'er the hills; go, mount th' exulting steed. Already, see, the deep-mouthed beagles catch The tainted mazes; and, on eager sport
Intent, with emulous impatience try
Each doubtful trace. Or, if a nobler prey Delight you more, go chase the desperate deer; And through its deepest solitudes awake
The vocal forest with the jovial horn.
But if the breathless chase o'er hill and dale' Exceed your strength; a sport of less fatigue, Not less delightful, the prolific stream Affords. The crystal rivulet, that o'er A stony channel rolls its rapid maze,
Swarms with the silver fry. Such, through the bounds Of pastoral Stafford, runs the brawling Trent; Such Eden, sprung from Cumbrian mountains; such The Esk, o'erhung with woods; and such the stream On whose Arcadian banks I first drew air, Liddel; till now, except in Doric lays
Tuned to her murmurs by her love-sick swains, Unknown in song: though not a purer stream, Through meads more flowery, more romantic groves, 80 Rolls toward the western main. Hail, sacred flood! May still thy hospitable swains be bless'd
In rural innocence; thy mountains still Teem with the fleecy race; thy tuneful woods For ever flourish; and thy vales look gay With painted meadows, and the golden grain! Oft, with thy blooming sons, when life was new, Sportive and petulant, and charmed with toys, In thy transparent eddies have I laved: Oft traced with patient steps thy fairy banks,
With the well-imitated fly to hook
The eager trout, and with the slender line And yielding rod solicit to the shore
The struggling panting prey; while vernal clouds And tepid gales obscured the ruffled pool,
And from the deeps called forth the wanton swarms.
Form'd on the Samian' school, or those of Ind, There are who think these pastimes scarce humane. Yet in my mind (and not relentless I) His life is pure that wears no fouler stains. But if through genuine tenderness of heart, Or secret want of relish for the game, You shun the glories of the chase, nor care To haunt the peopled stream; the garden yields A soft amusement, a humane delight.
To raise th' insipid nature of the ground; Or tame its savage genius to the grace Of careless sweet rusticity, that seems The amiable result of happy chance, Is to create; and gives a god-like joy, Which every year improves. Nor thou disdain To check the lawless riot of the trees, To plant the grove, or turn the barren mould. O happy he! whom, when his years decline, (His fortune and his fame by worthy means Attained, and equal to his moderate mind; His life approved by all the wise and good, Even envied by the vain) the peaceful groves Of Epicurus, from this stormy world, Receive to rest; of all ungrateful cares Absolved, and sacred from the selfish crowd. Happiest of men! if the same soil invites
A chosen few, companions of his youth, Once fellow rakes perhaps, now rural friends; With whom in easy commerce to pursue Nature's free charms, and vie for sylvan fame: A fair ambition; void of strife or guile, Or jealousy, or pain to be outdone. Who plans the enchanted garden, who directs The vista best, and best conducts the stream; Whose groves the fastest thicken and ascend; Whom first the welcome spring salutes; whe
The earliest bloom, the sweetest proudest charms Of Flora; who best gives Pomona's juice To match the sprightly genius of champaign. Thrice happy days! in rural business past: Blest winter nights! when as the genial fire Cheers the wide hall, his cordial family With soft domestic arts the hours beguile, And pleasing talk that starts no timorous fame, With witless wantonness to hunt it down: Or through the fairy-land of tale or song Delighted wander, in fictitious fates Engaged, and all that strikes humanity: Till lost in fable, they the stealing hour Of timely rest forget. Sometimes, at eve His neighbours lift the latch, and bless unbid His festal roof; while, o'er the light repast, And sprightly cups, they mix in social joy; And, through the maze of conversation, trace Whate'er amuses or improves the mind. Sometimes at eve (for I delight to taste The native zest and flavour of the fruit,
Where sense grows wild and takes of no manure) The decent, honest, cheerful husbandmanı
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