Sweet is thy reign, but short; the red Dog-star
Shall fcorch thy treffes, and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flow'rets all,
Remorfeless shall destroy.

Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewel;
For O not all that Autumn's lap contains,
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,
Can aught for thee atone.

Fair Spring! whofe fimpleft promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and thro' the heart
Each joy and new-born hope
With fofteft influence breathes.




HAPPY they! the happieft of their kind!


Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate

Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. 'Tis not the coarfer tie of human laws,

Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind,
That binds their peace, but harmony itself,
Attuning all their paffions into love;

Where friendship full exerts her foftest power.

Perfect esteem, enliven'd by defire

Ineffable, and sympathy of foul;

Thought, meeting thought, and will preventing will,
With boundless confidence: for nought but love
Can answer love, and render blifs fecure.

Let him, ungenerous, who alone, intent
To blefs himself, from fordid parents buys
The loathing virgin, in eternal care,
Well-merited, confume his nights and days:
Let barbarous nations, whofe inhuman love
Is wild defire, fierce as the fans they feel;
Let eastern tyrants from the light of heaven
· Seclude their bofom-flaves, meanly poffefs'd
Of a mere lifeless, violated form :

While those whom love cements in holy faith,
And equal transport, free as nature live,
Difdaining fear. What is the world to them,
Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all ?
Who in each other clafp whatever fair
High Fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish;
Something than beauty dearer, fhould they look
Or on the mind, or mind-illumin'd face;
Truth, Goodness, Honour, Harmony, and Love,
The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven.
Mean-time a fmiling offspring rifés round,
And mingles both their graces. By degrees,
The human bloffom blows; and every day,
Soft as it rolls along, fhews fome new charm,
The father's-luftre, and the mother's bloom.
Then infant Reafon grows apace, and calls
For the kind hand of an affiduous care.
Delightful tafk! to rear the tender Thought,
To teach the young Idea how to fhoot,

pour the fresh inftruction o'er the mind,
To breathe enlivening fpirit, and to fix
The generous purpose in the glowing breast,
Oh! fpeak the joy! ye whom the fudden tear



Surprises often, while you look around,

And nothing strikes your eye but fights of bliss;
All various Nature preffing on the heart:
An elegant fufficiency, content,

Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Eafe and alternate labour, useful life,
Progreffive virtue, and approving Heaven:
These are the matchless joys of virtuous love;
And thus their moments fly. The Seafons thus,
As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll,
Still find them happy; and confenting Spring
Sheds her own rofy garland on their heads:
Till evening comes at laft, ferene and mild:
When after the long vernal day of life,
Enamour'd more, as more remembrance fwells.

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With many a proof of recollected love,
Together down they fink in social sleep;
Together freed, their gentle fpirits fly

To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.




KNEW he but his happiness! of men
The happiest he, who far from public rage,
Deep in the vale, with a choice few retir'd
Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life.
What tho' the dome be wanting, whofe proud gate,
Each morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd-
Of flatterers falfe, and in their turn abus'd!'
Vile intercourfe! What tho' the glittering robe,

Of every hue reflected light can give,
Or floated loose, or stiff with mazy gold,
The pride and gaze of fools! opprefs him not?
What tho', from utmost land and fea purvey'd,
For him each rarer tributary life

Bleeds not, and his infatiate table heaps
With luxury and death? What tho' his bowl
Flames not with coftly juice; nor funk in beds
Oft of gay Care, he toffes out the night,
Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle ftate?
What tho' he knows not those fantastic joys,
That still amuse the wanton, still deceive;
A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain;
Their hollow moments undelighted all ?
Sure peace is his; a folid life eftrang'd
To difappointment, and fallacious hope:
Rich in Content, in Nature's bounty rich,
In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the spring,
When heav'n defcends in showers; or bends the bough
When fummer reddens, and when autumn beams;
Or in the wint❜ry glebe whatever lies
Conceal'd and fattens with the richest sap:
These are not wanting; nor the milky drove,
Luxuriant, fpread o'er all the lowing vale:
Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of ftreams,
And hum of bees, inviting fleep fincere
Into the guilti fs breast, beneath the shade,,
Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay;
Nor aught befides of profpect, grove, or fong,
Dim grottoes, gleaming lakes, and fountain clear.
Here too dwells fimple Truth; plain Innocence;
Unfullied Beauty; found unbroken Youth,


Patient of labour, with a little pleas'd;
Health ever blooming; unambitious Toil;
Calm Contemplation, and poetic Eafe.

The rage of nations, and the crush of ftates,
Move not the man, who, from the world escap'd,
In ftill retreats, and flow'ry folitudes,

To nature's voice attends, from month to month,
And day to day, thro' the revolving year;
Admiring, fees her in her every shape;
Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart;
Takes what fhe liberal gives, nor thinks of more.
He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting gems,
Marks the first bud, and fucks the healthful gale
Into his freshen'd foul; her genial hours
He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows,
And not an opening blossom breathes, in vain.
In fummer he, beneath the living shade
Such as o'er frigid Tempe wont to wave,
Or Hemus cool, reads what the Mufe, of these
Perhaps, has in immortal numbers fung;
Or what the dictates writes: and, oft an eye
Shot round, rejoices in the vigorous year.
When Autumn's yellow luftre gilds the world
And tempts the fickled fwain into the field,
Seiz'd by the general joy his heart distends
With gentle throws; and, thro' the tepid gleams
Deep mufing, then he beft exerts his fong.
Even Winter wild to him is full of blifs:
The mighty tempeft, and the hoary waste,
Abrupt, and deep, ftretch'd o'er the buried earth
Awake to folemn thought. At night the skies,
Difclos'd and kindled by refining froft,



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