The first-born efforts of my youthful muse,
Sportive and jingling her poetick bells,

Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs.
No bard could please me but whose lyre was tun'd
To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats
Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe
Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang,

The rustick throng beneath his fav'rite beech.
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms :
New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'd
The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue
To speak its excellence. I danc'd for joy.
I marvell'd much that, at so ripe an age
As twice seven years, his beauties had then first
Engag'd my wonder; and admiring stil,
And still admiring, with regret suppos'd
The joy half lost, because not sooner found.
There, too, enamour'd of the life I lov'd,
Pathetick in its praise, in its pursuit
Determin'd and possessing it at last,

With transports such as favour'd lovers feel,
I studied, priz'd, and wish'd that I had known,
Ingenious Cowley! and, though now reclaim'd
By modern lights from an erroneous taste,
I cannot but lament thy splendid wit
Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools.
I still revere thee, courtly though retir'd ;
Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silent bow'rs,
Not unemploy'd; and finding rich amends

For a lost world in solitude and verse.
'Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works
Is an ingredient in the compound man,

Infus'd at the creation of the kind.

And, though th' Almighty Maker has throughout
Discriminated each from each, by strokes
And touches of his hand, with so much art

Diversified, that two were never found
Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all
That all discern a beauty in bis works,

And all can taste them: minds that have been form'd
And tutor'd with a relish more exact,

But none without some relish, none unmov'd.
It is a flame that dies not even there,

Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds,
Nor habits of luxurious city life,

Whatever else they smother of true worth
In human bosoms, quench it or abate.

The villas, with which London stands begirt,
Like a swath Indian with his belt of beads
Prove it. A breath of unadult'rate air

The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer
The citizen, and brace his languid 'frame!
E'en in the stifling bosom of the town

A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms
That sooth the rich possessor; much consol'd,
That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint
Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well
He cultivates. These serve him with a hint
That Nature lives; that sight refreshing green
Is still the liv'ry she delights to wear,

Though sickly samples of th' exub'rant whole.
What are the casements lin'd with creeping herbs,
The prouder sashes fronted with a range

Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,

The Frenchmans's darling?* are they not all proofs,.
That man, immur'd in cities, still retains
His inborn inextinguishable thirst

Of rural scenes, compensating his loss

By supplimental shifts, the best he may ?

The most unfurnish'd with the means of life,

* Mignionette.

And they that never pass their brick wall bounds
To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air,
Yet feel the burning instinct; over head
Suspend their crazy boxes planted thick,
And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands
A fragment, and the spoutless teapot there';
Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets
The country, with what ardour he contrives
A peep at Nature, when he can no more.

Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease,
And contemplation, heart-consoling joys,
And harmless pleasures in the throng'd abode
Of multitudes unknown! bail, rural life!
Address himself who will to the pursuit
Of honours, or emolument, or fame;
I shall not add myself to such a chase,
Thwart his attempts or envy his success.
Some must be great. Great offices will have
Great talents. And God gives to ev'ry man
The virtue, temper, understanding, taste,
That lifts him into life, and lets him fali
Just in the niche, he was ordain'd to fill.
To the deliv'rer of an injur'd land

He gives a tongue t' enlarge upon, a heart
To feel, and courage to redress, her wrongs;
To monarchs dignity; to judges sense;
To artists ingenuity and skill;

To me, an unambitious mind, content
In the low vale of life, that early felt

A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long
Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd.

THE WINTER MORNING WALK.