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With untirrd feet: and cirll thy earliest »weet»
Unlock thy copious stores; those tender shower*
And silent dews that swell
The milky ear's green stem,
And feed the flowering osier's early shoots;
And call those winds which thro* the whiep'ring boughs
With warm and pleasant breath
Salute the blowing flowers.
Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And watch with patient eye
Thy fair unfolding charms.
O Nymph approach! while yet the temperate sun
Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses wooes
The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil
Protects thy modest blooms
From his severer blaze.
Sweet is thy reign, but short; the red dog-star
Thy greens, thy flow'rets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.
Reluctant shall I bid thce then farewel;
Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights
DOMESTIC LOVE AND HAPPINESS.
O HAPPY they! the happiest of their kind! Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. 'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws, Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind, That binds their peace, but harmony itself, Attuning all their passions into love; Where friendship full exerts her softest power. Perfect esteem, enliven'd by desire Ineffable, and sympathy of soul; Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will, With boundless confidence; for nought but love Can answer love, and render bliss secure. Let him, ungenerous, who, alone intent To bless himself, from sordid parents buys The loathing virgin, in eternal care, 'Well-merited, consume his nights and days: Let barbarous nations, whose inhuman love Is wild desire, fierce as the suns they feel; I>et eastern tyrants from the light of Heaven Seclude their bosom-slaves, meanly possess'd Of a mere lifeless, violated form:
While those whom love cements in holy faith;
Enamour'd more, as more resemblance Swells,
THE PLEASURES OF RETIREMENT.
0 KNEW he but Ifcis 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 the/the dome he wanting, whose proud gate, Each morning, vomits out the sneaking croud Of flatterers false, and in their turn abus'd! Vile intercourse! 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, oppress him not? What tho', from utmost land and sea survey'd, For him each rarer tributary life Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps With luxury and death? What tho' his bowl Flames not with costly juice; nor sunk in beds Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night, Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state? What tho' he knows not those fantastic joys, That still amuse the wanton, still deceive; A face of pleasure, put a heart of psiin; Their hollow moments undelighted all? Sure peace is his; a solid life estrang'd
To disappointment and fallacious hope:
Rich in content, in Nature's bounty rich,
In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the Spring,
Whtfn heaven descends in showers; or bend the bough
When*Summer 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, spread o'er all the lowing vale;
Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams,
And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere
Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade,
Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay;
Nor ought besides of prospect, grove, or song,
Dim grottoes, gleaming lakes, and ,&mntain clear.
Here too dwells simple truth ; plain innecence-';
Unsullied beauty ; sound unbroken youth,
Patient of labour, with a little pleas'd;
Health ever blooming; unambitious toil;
Calm contemplation, and poetic ease.
The rage of nations, and the crush of states, Move not the man, who, from the world escap'd, In still retreats, and flow'ry solitudes, To Nature's voice attends, from month to month, And day to day, through the revolving year; Admiring, sees her in her every shape; Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart: Takes what she liberal gives, nor thinks of more. He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting gems, Marks the first bud, and sucks the healthful gale Into his freshen'd soul; her genial hours He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows, And not an opening blossom breathes, in vain. In summer he, beneath the living shade, Such as o'er frigid Tempe wont to wave, Or Hermis cool, reads what the Muse, of these, Perhaps, has in immortal numbers sung;