Book III: The Garden

As one who, long in thickets and in brakesEntangled, winds now this way and now thatHis devious course uncertain, seeking home;Or, having long in miry ways been foiledAnd sore discomfited, from slough to sloughPlunging, and half despairing of escape,If chance at length he find a greensward smoothAnd faithful to the foot, his spirits rise,He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed,And winds his way with pleasure and with ease;So I, designing other themes, and calledTo adorn the Sofa with eulogium due,To tell its slumbers and to paint its dreams,Have rambled wide. In country, city, seatOf academic fame, howe'er deserved,Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last.But now with pleasant pace, a cleanlier roadI mean to tread. I feel myself at large,Courageous, and refreshed for future toil,If toil await me, or if dangers new.

Since pulpits fail, and sounding-boards reflectMost part an empty ineffectual sound,What chance that I, to fame so little known,Nor conversant with men or manners much,Should speak to purpose, or with better hopeCrack the satiric thong? 'Twere wiser farFor me, enamoured of sequestered scenes,And charmed with rural beauty, to repose,Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vineMy languid limbs, when summer sears the plains;Or when rough winter rages, on the softAnd sheltered Sofa, while the nitrous airFeeds a blue flame and makes a cheerful hearth;There, undisturbed by folly, and apprisedHow great the danger of disturbing her,To muse in silence, or at least confineRemarks that gall so many to the few,My partners in retreat. Disgust concealedIs ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the faultIs obstinate, and cure beyond our reach.

Domestic happiness, thou only blissOf Paradise that has survived the fall!Though few now taste thee unimpaired and pure,Or, tasting, long enjoy thee, too infirmOr too incautious to preserve thy sweetsUnmixed with drops of bitter, which neglectOr temper sheds into thy crystal cup.Thou art the nurse of virtue. In thine armsShe smiles, appearing, as in truth she is,Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again.Thou art not known where Pleasure is adored,That reeling goddess with the zoneless waistAnd wandering eyes, still leaning on the armOf Novelty, her fickle frail support;For thou art meek and constant, hating change,And finding in the calm of truth-tried loveJoys that her stormy raptures never yield.Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we madeOf honour, dignity, and fair renown,Till prostitution elbows us asideIn all our crowded streets, and senates seemConvened for purposes of empire less,Than to release the adult'ress from her bond.The adult'ress! what a theme for angry verse,What provocation to the indignant heartThat feels for injured love! but I disdainThe nauseous task to paint her as she is,Cruel, abandoned, glorying in her shame.No; let her pass, and charioted alongIn guilty splendour shake the public ways;The frequency of crimes has washed them white,And verse of mine shall never brand the wretchWhom matrons now of character unsmirchedAnd chaste themselves, are not ashamed to own.Virtue and vice had boundaries in old timeNot to be passed; and she that had renouncedHer sex's honour, was renounced herselfBy all that prized it; not for prudery's sake,But dignity's, resentful of the wrong.'Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waifDesirous to return, and not received;But was a wholesome rigour in the main,And taught the unblemished to preserve with careThat purity, whose loss was loss of all.Men, too, were nice in honour in those days,And judged offenders well. Then he that sharped,And pocketed a prize by fraud obtained,Was marked and shunned as odious. He that soldHis country, or was slack when she requiredHis every nerve in action and at stretch,Paid with the blood that he had basely sparedThe price of his default. But now,--yes, now,We are become so candid and so fair,So liberal in construction, and so richIn Christian charity (good-natured age!)That they are safe, sinners of either sex,Transgress what laws they may. Well dressed, well bred,Well equipaged, is ticket good enoughTo pass us readily through every door.Hypocrisy, detest her as we may(And no man's hatred ever wronged her yet),May claim this merit still--that she admitsThe worth of what she mimics with such care,And thus gives virtue indirect applause;But she has burnt her mask, not needed here,Where vice has such allowance, that her shiftsAnd specious semblances have lost their use.

I was a stricken deer that left the herdLong since; with many an arrow deep infixtMy panting side was charged, when I withdrewTo seek a tranquil death in distant shades.There was I found by one who had himselfBeen hurt by the archers. In his side he bore,And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.With gentle force soliciting the dartsHe drew them forth, and healed and bade me live.Since then, with few associates, in remoteAnd silent woods I wander, far from thoseMy former partners of the peopled scene,With few associates, and not wishing more.Here much I ruminate, as much I may,With other views of men and manners nowThan once, and others of a life to come.I see that all are wanderers, gone astrayEach in his own delusions; they are lostIn chase of fancied happiness, still woo'dAnd never won. Dream after dream ensues,And still they dream that they shall still succeed,And still are disappointed: rings the worldWith the vain stir. I sum up half mankind,And add two-thirds of the remaining half,And find the total of their hopes and fearsDreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gayAs if created only, like the flyThat spreads his motley wings in the eye of noon,To sport their season and be seen no more.The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise,And pregnant with discoveries new and rare.Some write a narrative of wars, and featsOf heroes little known, and call the rantA history; describe the man, of whomHis own coevals took but little note,And paint his person, character, and views,As they had known him from his mother's womb;They disentangle from the puzzled skein,In which obscurity has wrapped them up,The threads of politic and shrewd designThat ran through all his purposes, and chargeHis mind with meanings that he never had,Or, having, kept concealed. Some drill and boreThe solid earth, and from the strata thereExtract a register, by which we learnThat He who made it and revealed its dateTo Moses, was mistaken in its age.Some, more acute and more industrious still,Contrive creation; travel nature upTo the sharp peak of her sublimest height,And tell us whence the stars; why some are fixt,And planetary some; what gave them firstRotation, from what fountain flowed their light.Great contest follows, and much learned dustInvolves the combatants, each claiming truth,And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spendThe little wick of life's poor shallow lampIn playing tricks with nature, giving lawsTo distant worlds, and trifling in their own.Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheumsShould ever tease the lungs and blear the sightOf oracles like these? Great pity, too,That having wielded the elements, and builtA thousand systems, each in his own way,They should go out in fume and be forgot?Ah, what is life thus spent? and what are theyBut frantic who thus spend it? all for smoke--Eternity for bubbles proves at lastA senseless bargain. When I see such gamesPlayed by the creatures of a Power who swearsThat He will judge the earth, and call the foolTo a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain,And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well,And prove it in the infallible resultSo hollow and so false--I feel my heartDissolve in pity, and account the learned,If this be learning, most of all deceived.Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleepsWhile thoughtful man is plausibly amused.Defend me, therefore, common sense, say I,From reveries so airy, from the toilOf dropping buckets into empty wells,And growing old in drawing nothing up!

'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound,Terribly arched and aquiline his nose,And overbuilt with most impending brows,'Twere well could you permit the world to liveAs the world pleases. What's the world to you?--Much. I was born of woman, and drew milkAs sweet as charity from human breasts.I think, articulate, I laugh and weep,And exercise all functions of a man.How then should I and any man that livesBe strangers to each other? Pierce my vein,Take of the crimson stream meandering there,And catechise it well. Apply your glass,Search it, and prove now if it be not bloodCongenial with thine own; and if it be,What edge of subtlety canst thou supposeKeen enough, wise and skilful as thou art,To cut the link of brotherhood, by whichOne common Maker bound me to the kind?True; I am no proficient, I confess,In arts like yours. I cannot call the swiftAnd perilous lightnings from the angry clouds,And bid them hide themselves in the earth beneath;I cannot analyse the air, nor catchThe parallax of yonder luminous pointThat seems half quenched in the immense abyss:Such powers I boast not--neither can I restA silent witness of the headlong rage,Or heedless folly, by which thousands die,Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine.

God never meant that man should scale the heavensBy strides of human wisdom. In His works,Though wondrous, He commands us in His WordTo seek Him rather where His mercy shines.The mind indeed, enlightened from above,Views Him in all; ascribes to the grand causeThe grand effect; acknowledges with joyHis manner, and with rapture tastes His style.But never yet did philosophic tube,That brings the planets home into the eyeOf observation, and discovers, elseNot visible, His family of worlds,Discover Him that rules them; such a veilHangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth,And dark in things divine. Full often tooOur wayward intellect, the more we learnOf nature, overlooks her Author more;From instrumental causes proud to drawConclusions retrograde, and mad mistake:But if His Word once teach us, shoot a rayThrough all the heart's dark chambers, and revealTruths undiscerned but by that holy light,Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptisedIn the pure fountain of eternal love,Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all she seesAs meant to indicate a God to man,Gives HIM His praise, and forfeits not her own.Learning has borne such fruit in other daysOn all her branches. Piety has foundFriends in the friends of science, and true prayerHas flowed from lips wet with Castalian dews.Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage!Sagacious reader of the works of God,And in His Word sagacious. Such too thine,Milton, whose genius had angelic wings,And fed on manna. And such thine, in whomOur British Themis gloried with just cause,Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised,And sound integrity not more, than famedFor sanctity of manners undefiled.

All flesh is grass, and all its glory fadesLike the fair flower dishevelled in the wind;Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream;The man we celebrate must find a tomb,And we that worship him, ignoble graves.Nothing is proof against the general curseOf vanity, that seizes all below.The only amaranthine flower on earthIs virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth.But what is truth? 'twas Pilate's question putTo truth itself, that deigned him no reply.And wherefore? will not God impart His lightTo them that ask it?--Freely--'tis His joy,His glory, and His nature to impart.But to the proud, uncandid, insincere,Or negligent inquirer, not a spark.What's that which brings contempt upon a bookAnd him that writes it, though the style be neat,The method clear, and argument exact?That makes a minister in holy thingsThe joy of many, and the dread of more,His name a theme for praise and for reproach?--That, while it gives us worth in God's account,Depreciates and undoes us in our own?What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy,That learning is too proud to gather up,But which the poor and the despised of allSeek and obtain, and often find unsought?Tell me, and I will tell thee what is truth.

Oh, friendly to the best pursuits of man,Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace,Domestic life in rural leisure passed!Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets,Though many boast thy favours, and affectTo understand and choose thee for their own.But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss,Even as his first progenitor, and quits,Though placed in paradise, for earth has stillSome traces of her youthful beauty left,Substantial happiness for transient joy.Scenes formed for contemplation, and to nurseThe growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest,By every pleasing image they present,Reflections such as meliorate the heart,Compose the passions, and exalt the mind;Scenes such as these, 'tis his supreme delightTo fill with riot and defile with blood.Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutesWe persecute, annihilate the tribesThat draw the sportsman over hill and daleFearless, and rapt away from all his cares;Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again,Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye;Could pageantry, and dance, and feast, and songBe quelled in all our summer months' retreats;How many self-deluded nymphs and swains,Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves,Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen,And crowd the roads, impatient for the town!They love the country, and none else, who seekFor their own sake its silence and its shade;Delights which who would leave, that has a heartSusceptible of pity, or a mindCultured and capable of sober thought,For all the savage din of the swift pack,And clamours of the field? Detested sport,That owes its pleasures to another's pain,That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieksOf harmless nature, dumb, but yet enduedWith eloquence, that agonies inspire,Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs!Vain tears, alas! and sighs that never findA corresponding tone in jovial souls.Well--one at least is safe. One sheltered hareHas never heard the sanguinary yellOf cruel man, exulting in her woes.Innocent partner of my peaceful home,Whom ten long years' experience of my careHas made at last familiar, she has lostMuch of her vigilant instinctive dread,Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.Yes--thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the handThat feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floorAt evening, and at night retire secureTo thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed;For I have gained thy confidence, have pledgedAll that is human in me to protectThine unsuspecting gratitude and love.If I survive thee I will dig thy grave,And when I place thee in it, sighing say,I knew at least one hare that had a friend.

How various his employments, whom the worldCalls idle, and who justly in returnEsteems that busy world an idler, too!Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,Delightful industry enjoyed at home,And nature in her cultivated trimDressed to his taste, inviting him abroad--Can he want occupation who has these?Will he be idle who has much to enjoy?Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease,Not slothful; happy to deceive the time,Not waste it; and aware that human lifeIs but a loan to be repaid with use,When He shall call His debtors to account,From whom are all our blessings; business findsEven here: while sedulous I seek to improve,At least neglect not, or leave unemployed,The mind He gave me; driving it, though slackToo oft, and much impeded in its workBy causes not to be divulged in vain,To its just point--the service of mankind.He that attends to his interior self,That has a heart and keeps it; has a mindThat hungers and supplies it; and who seeksA social, not a dissipated life,Has business; feels himself engaged to achieveNo unimportant, though a silent task.A life all turbulence and noise may seem,To him that leads it, wise and to be praised;But wisdom is a pearl with most successSought in still water, and beneath clear skies.He that is ever occupied in storms,Or dives not for it or brings up instead,Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize.

The morning finds the self-sequestered manFresh for his task, intend what task he may.Whether inclement seasons recommendHis warm but simple home, where he enjoys,With her who shares his pleasures and his heart,Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymphWhich neatly she prepares; then to his bookWell chosen, and not sullenly perusedIn selfish silence, but imparted oftAs aught occurs that she may smile to hear,Or turn to nourishment digested well.Or if the garden with its many cares,All well repaid, demand him, he attendsThe welcome call, conscious how much the handOf lubbard labour needs his watchful eye,Oft loitering lazily if not o'erseen,Or misapplying his unskilful strength.Nor does he govern only or direct,But much performs himself; no works indeedThat ask robust tough sinews, bred to toil,Servile employ--but such as may amuse,Not tire, demanding rather skill than force.Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his treesThat meet, no barren interval between,With pleasure more than even their fruits afford,Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel.These, therefore, are his own peculiar charge,No meaner hand may discipline the shoots,None but his steel approach them. What is weak,Distempered, or has lost prolific powers,Impaired by age, his unrelenting handDooms to the knife. Nor does he spare the softAnd succulent that feeds its giant growth,But barren, at the expense of neighbouring twigsLess ostentatious, and yet studded thickWith hopeful gems. The rest, no portion leftThat may disgrace his art, or disappointLarge expectation, he disposes neatAt measured distances, that air and sunAdmitted freely may afford their aid,And ventilate and warm the swelling buds.Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence,And hence even Winter fills his withered handWith blushing fruits, and plenty not his own,Fair recompense of labour well bestowedAnd wise precaution, which a clime so rudeMakes needful still, whose Spring is but the childOf churlish Winter, in her froward moodsDiscovering much the temper of her sire.For oft, as if in her the stream of mildMaternal nature had reversed its course,She brings her infants forth with many smiles,But, once delivered, kills them with a frown.He therefore, timely warned, himself suppliesHer want of care, screening and keeping warmThe plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweepHis garlands from the boughs. Again, as oftAs the sun peeps and vernal airs breathe mild,The fence withdrawn, he gives them ev'ry beam,And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day.

To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd,So grateful to the palate, and when rareSo coveted, else base and disesteemed--Food for the vulgar merely--is an artThat toiling ages have but just matured,And at this moment unessayed in song.Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice long since,Their eulogy; those sang the Mantuan bard,And these the Grecian in ennobling strains;And in thy numbers, Philips, shines for ayeThe solitary Shilling. Pardon then,Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame!The ambition of one meaner far, whose powersPresuming an attempt not less sublime,Pant for the praise of dressing to the tasteOf critic appetite, no sordid fare,A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce.

The stable yields a stercoraceous heapImpregnated with quick fermenting salts,And potent to resist the freezing blast.For ere the beech and elm have cast their leafDeciduous, and when now November darkChecks vegetation in the torpid plantExposed to his cold breath, the task begins.Warily therefore, and with prudent heedHe seeks a favoured spot, that where he buildsThe agglomerated pile, his frame may frontThe sun's meridian disk, and at the backEnjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedgeImpervious to the wind. First he bids spreadDry fern or littered hay, that may imbibeThe ascending damps; then leisurely impose,And lightly, shaking it with agile handFrom the full fork, the saturated straw.What longest binds the closest, forms secureThe shapely side, that as it rises takesBy just degrees an overhanging breadth,Sheltering the base with its projected eaves.The uplifted frame compact at every joint,And overlaid with clear translucent glass,He settles next upon the sloping mount,Whose sharp declivity shoots off secureFrom the dashed pane the deluge as it falls.He shuts it close, and the first labour ends.Thrice must the voluble and restless earthSpin round upon her axle, ere the warmthSlow gathering in the midst, through the square massDiffused, attain the surface. When, behold!A pestilent and most corrosive steam,Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast,And fast condensed upon the dewy sash,Asks egress; which obtained, the overchargedAnd drenched conservatory breathes abroad,In volumes wheeling slow, the vapour dank,And purified, rejoices to have lostIts foul inhabitant. But to assuageThe impatient fervour which it first conceivesWithin its reeking bosom, threatening deathTo his young hopes, requires discreet delay.Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oftThe way to glory by miscarriage foul,Must prompt him, and admonish how to catchThe auspicious moment, when the tempered heat,Friendly to vital motion, may affordSoft fermentation, and invite the seed.The seed selected wisely, plump and smoothAnd glossy, he commits to pots of sizeDiminutive, well filled with well-preparedAnd fruitful soil, that has been treasured long,And drunk no moisture from the dripping clouds:These on the warm and genial earth that hidesThe smoking manure, and o'erspreads it all,He places lightly, and, as time subduesThe rage of fermentation, plunges deepIn the soft medium, till they stand immersed.Then rise the tender germs upstarting quickAnd spreading wide their spongy lobes; at firstPale, wan, and livid; but assuming soon,If fanned by balmy and nutritious airStrained through the friendly mats, a vivid green.Two leaves produced, two rough indented leaves,Cautious he pinches from the second stalkA pimple, that portends a future sprout,And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeedThe branches, sturdy to his utmost wish,Prolific all, and harbingers of more.The crowded roots demand enlargement nowAnd transplantation in an ampler space.Indulged in what they wish, they soon supplyLarge foliage, overshadowing golden flowers,Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit.These have their sexes, and when summer shinesThe bee transports the fertilising mealFrom flower to flower, and even the breathing airWafts the rich prize to its appointed use.Not so when winter scowls. Assistant artThen acts in nature's office, brings to passThe glad espousals and insures the crop.

Grudge not, ye rich (since luxury must haveHis dainties, and the world's more numerous halfLives by contriving delicates for you),Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares,The vigilance, the labour, and the skillThat day and night are exercised, and hangUpon the ticklish balance of suspense,That ye may garnish your profuse regalesWith summer fruits, brought forth by wintry suns.Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwartThe process. Heat and cold, and wind and steam,Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming fliesMinute as dust and numberless, oft workDire disappointment that admits no cure,And which no care can obviate. It were long,Too long to tell the expedients and the shiftsWhich he, that fights a season so severe,Devises, while he guards his tender trust,And oft, at last, in vain. The learned and wiseSarcastic would exclaim, and judge the songCold as its theme, and, like its theme, the fruitOf too much labour, worthless when produced.

Who loves a garden, loves a greenhouse too.Unconscious of a less propitious climeThere blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug,While the winds whistle and the snows descend.The spiry myrtle with unwithering leafShines there and flourishes. The golden boastOf Portugal and Western India there,The ruddier orange and the paler lime,Peep through their polished foliage at the storm,And seem to smile at what they need not fear.The amomum there with intermingling flowersAnd cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boastsHer crimson honours, and the spangled beau,Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long,All plants, of every leaf, that can endureThe winter's frown if screened from his shrewd bite,Live there and prosper. Those Ausonia claims,Levantine regions these; the Azores sendTheir jessamine; her jessamine remoteCaffraria: foreigners from many lands,They form one social shade, as if convenedBy magic summons of the Orphean lyre.Yet such arrangement, rarely brought to passBut by a master's hand, disposing wellThe gay diversities of leaf and flower,Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms,And dress the regular yet various scene.Plant behind plant aspiring, in the vanThe dwarfish, in the rear retired, but stillSublime above the rest, the statelier stand.So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome,A noble show, while Roscius trod the stage;And so, while Garrick, as renowned as he,The sons of Albion, fearing each to loseSome note of Nature's music from his lips,And covetous of Shakespeare's beauty, seenIn every flash of his far-beaming eye.Nor taste alone and well-contrived displaySuffice to give the marshalled ranks the graceOf their complete effect. Much yet remainsUnsung, and many cares are yet behindAnd more laborious; cares on which dependsTheir vigour, injured soon, not soon restored.The soil must be renewed, which often washedLoses its treasure of salubrious salts,And disappoints the roots; the slender roots,Close interwoven where they meet the vase,Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branchMust fly before the knife; the withered leafMust be detached, and where it strews the floorSwept with a woman's neatness, breeding elseContagion, and disseminating death.Discharge but these kind offices (and whoWould spare, that loves them, offices like these?)Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleased,The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf,Each opening blossom, freely breathes abroadIts gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets.

So manifold, all pleasing in their kind,All healthful, are the employs of rural life,Reiterated as the wheel of timeRuns round, still ending, and beginning still.Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knollThat, softly swelled and gaily dressed, appearsA flowery island from the dark green lawnEmerging, must be deemed a labour dueTo no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste.Here also grateful mixture of well-matchedAnd sorted hues (each giving each relief,And by contrasted beauty shining more)Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous spade,May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home,But elegance, chief grace the garden showsAnd most attractive, is the fair resultOf thought, the creature of a polished mind.Without it, all is Gothic as the sceneTo which the insipid citizen resorts,Near yonder heath; where industry misspent,But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task,Has made a heaven on earth; with suns and moonsOf close-rammed stones has charged the encumbered soil,And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust.He, therefore, who would see his flowers disposedSightly and in just order, ere he givesThe beds the trusted treasure of their seeds,Forecasts the future whole; that when the sceneShall break into its preconceived display,Each for itself, and all as with one voiceConspiring, may attest his bright design.Nor even then, dismissing as performedHis pleasant work, may he suppose it done.Few self-supported flowers endure the windUninjured, but expect the upholding aidOf the smooth-shaven prop, and neatly tiedAre wedded thus, like beauty to old age,For interest sake, the living to the dead.Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffusedAnd lowly creeping, modest and yet fair;Like virtue, thriving most where little seen.Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbour shrubWith clasping tendrils, and invest his branch,Else unadorned, with many a gay festoonAnd fragrant chaplet, recompensing wellThe strength they borrow with the grace they lend.All hate the rank society of weeds,Noisome, and very greedy to exhaustThe impoverished earth; an overbearing race,That, like the multitude made faction-mad,Disturb good order, and degrade true worth.

Oh blest seclusion from a jarring world,Which he, thus occupied, enjoys! RetreatCannot, indeed, to guilty man restoreLost innocence, or cancel follies past;But it has peace, and much secures the mindFrom all assaults of evil; proving stillA faithful barrier, not o'erleaped with easeBy vicious custom raging uncontrolledAbroad and desolating public life.When fierce temptation, seconded withinBy traitor appetite, and armed with dartsTempered in hell, invades the throbbing breast,To combat may be glorious, and successPerhaps may crown us, but to fly is safe.Had I the choice of sublunary good,What could I wish that I possess not here?Health, leisure; means to improve it, friendship, peace,No loose or wanton though a wandering muse,And constant occupation without care.Thus blest, I draw a picture of that bliss;Hopeless, indeed, that dissipated mindsAnd profligate abusers of a worldCreated fair so much in vain for them,Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe,Allured by my report; but sure no lessThat self-condemned they must neglect the prize,And what they will not taste, must yet approve.What we admire we praise; and when we praiseAdvance it into notice, that, its worthAcknowledged, others may admire it too.I therefore recommend, though at the riskOf popular disgust, yet boldly still,The cause of piety and sacred truthAnd virtue, and those scenes which God ordainedShould best secure them and promote them most;Scenes that I love, and with regret perceiveForsaken, or through folly not enjoyed.Pure is the nymph, though liberal of her smiles,And chaste, though unconfined, whom I extol.Not as the prince in Shushan, when he called,Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth,To grace the full pavilion. His designWas but to boast his own peculiar good,Which all might view with envy, none partake.My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets,And she that sweetens all my bitters, too,Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose formAnd lineaments divine I trace a handThat errs not, and find raptures still renewed,Is free to all men--universal prize.Strange that so fair a creature should yet wantAdmirers, and be destined to divideWith meaner objects even the few she finds.Stript of her ornaments, her leaves and flowers,She loses all her influence. Cities thenAttract us, and neglected Nature pines,Abandoned, as unworthy of our love.But are not wholesome airs, though unperfumedBy roses, and clear suns, though scarcely felt,And groves, if unharmonious yet secureFrom clamour and whose very silence charms,To be preferred to smoke--to the eclipseThat Metropolitan volcanoes make,Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day long,And to the stir of commerce, driving slow,And thundering loud with his ten thousand wheels?They would be, were not madness in the headAnd folly in the heart; were England nowWhat England was, plain, hospitable, kind,And undebauched. But we have bid farewellTo all the virtues of those better days,And all their honest pleasures. Mansions onceKnew their own masters, and laborious handsThat had survived the father, served the son.Now the legitimate and rightful lordIs but a transient guest, newly arrivedAnd soon to be supplanted. He that sawHis patrimonial timber cast its leaf,Sells the last scantling, and transfers the priceTo some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again.Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile,Then advertised, and auctioneered away.The country starves, and they that feed the o'er-chargedAnd surfeited lewd town with her fair dues,By a just judgment strip and starve themselves.The wings that waft our riches out of sightGrow on the gamester's elbows, and the alertAnd nimble motion of those restless joints,That never tire, soon fans them all away.Improvement too, the idol of the age,Is fed with many a victim. Lo! he comes--The omnipotent magician, Brown, appears.Down falls the venerable pile, the abodeOf our forefathers, a grave whiskered race,But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead,But in a distant spot; where more exposedIt may enjoy the advantage of the NorthAnd aguish East, till time shall have transformedThose naked acres to a sheltering grove.He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn,Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise,And streams, as if created for his use,Pursue the track of his directed wandSinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow,Now murmuring soft, now roaring in cascades,Even as he bids. The enraptured owner smiles.'Tis finished. And yet, finished as it seems,Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show,A mine to satisfy the enormous cost.Drained to the last poor item of his wealth,He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplished planThat he has touched and retouched, many a dayLaboured, and many a night pursued in dreams,Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the heavenHe wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy.And now perhaps the glorious hour is come,When having no stake left, no pledge to endearHer interests, or that gives her sacred causeA moment's operation on his love,He burns with most intense and flagrant zealTo serve his country. Ministerial graceDeals him out money from the public chest,Or, if that mine be shut, some private purseSupplies his need with an usurious loan,To be refunded duly, when his vote,Well-managed, shall have earned its worthy price.Oh, innocent compared with arts like these,Crape and cocked pistol and the whistling ballSent through the traveller's temples! He that findsOne drop of heaven's sweet mercy in his cup,Can dig, beg, rot, and perish well-content,So he may wrap himself in honest ragsAt his last gasp; but could not for a worldFish up his dirty and dependent breadFrom pools and ditches of the commonwealth,Sordid and sickening at his own success.

Ambition, avarice, penury incurredBy endless riot, vanity, the lustOf pleasure and variety, despatch,As duly as the swallows disappear,The world of wandering knights and squires to town;London engulfs them all. The shark is there,And the shark's prey; the spendthrift, and the leechThat sucks him. There the sycophant, and heThat with bare-headed and obsequious bowsBegs a warm office, doomed to a cold jailAnd groat per diem if his patron frown.The levee swarms, as if in golden pompWere charactered on every statesman's door,These are the charms that sully and eclipseThe charms of nature. 'Tis the cruel gripeThat lean hard-handed poverty inflicts,The hope of better things, the chance to win,The wish to shine, the thirst to be amused,That, at the sound of Winter's hoary wing,Unpeople all our counties of such herdsOf fluttering, loitering, cringing, begging, looseAnd wanton vagrants, as make London, vastAnd boundless as it is, a crowded coop.

Oh thou resort and mart of all the earth,Chequered with all complexions of mankind,And spotted with all crimes; in whom I seeMuch that I love, and more that I admire,And all that I abhor; thou freckled fairThat pleases and yet shocks me, I can laughAnd I can weep, can hope, and can despond,Feel wrath and pity when I think on thee!Ten righteous would have saved a city once,And thou hast many righteous.--Well for thee--That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else,And therefore more obnoxious at this hourThan Sodom in her day had power to be,For whom God heard his Abram plead in vain.