The PLEASURES of RETIREMENT.

[THOMSON.]

Knew he but his happinefs, of men
The happieft hell 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 fneaking croud
Of flatterers falfe, and in their turn abus'd?
Vile intercourfe! What tho' the glittering robe,
Of every hue reflected light can give,

Or floating loofe, or ftiff with mazy gold,
The pride and gaze of fools! oppress him not?
What tho', from utmoft 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 thofe fantaftic joys,
That ftill amufe the wanton, ftill 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 heaven defcends in fhowers; or bends the bough
When Summer reddens, and when Autumn beams;
Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies

Conceal'd, and fattens with the richest fap:
Thefe 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 guiltless breaft, beneath the fhade,
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;
Unsullied beauty; found unbroken youth,

Patient

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 ftates,
Move not the m man, who, from the world efcap'd,
In ftill retreats, and flowery folitudes,

To nature's voice attends, from month to month,
And day to day, thro' the revolving year;
Admiring, fees her in her every fhape;

Feels all her fweet emotions at his heart;
Takes what the 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 bloffom breathes in vain.
In Summer he, beneath the living fhade,
Such as o'er frigid Tempe wont to wave,
Or Hemus cool, reads, what the mufe, of thefe
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 diftends
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 wafte,
Abrupt, and deep, ftretch'd o'er the buried earth,
Awake to folemn thought. At night the fkies,
Difclos'd, and kindled, by refining froft,
Pour every luftre on th' exalted eye.

A friend, a book, the ftealing hours fecure,

And mark them down for wifdom. With fwift wing,
O'er land and fea th' imagination roams;
Or truth, divinely breaking on his mind,
Elates his being, and unfolds his powers;
Or in his breaft heroic virtue burns.
The touch of kindred too and love he feels;
The modeft eye, whofe beams on his alone
Extatic fhine; the little ftrong embrace
Of prattling children, twin'd around his neck,
And emulous to please him, calling forth

The

The fond parental foul. Nor purpose gay,
Amusement, dance, or fong, he fternly fcorns:;
For happiness and true philofophy

Are of the focial ftill, and fmiling kind.
This is the life which those who fret in guilt,
And guilty cities, never knew; the life,

Led by primeval ages, uncorrupt,

When Angels dwelt, and God himself, with Man!

A PANEGYRIC on GREAT BRITAIN.

HEA

[THOMSON.}

EAVENS! what a goodly profpect fpreads around,
Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and
fpires,

And glittering towns, and gilded ftreams, till all
The ftretching landskip into fmoke decays!
Happy Britannia! where the Queen of Arts,
Infpiring vigour, Liberty abroad

Walks, unconfin'd, even to thy fartheft cotts,
And fcatters plenty with unfparing hand.
Rich is thy foil, and merciful thy clime;

Thy ftreams unfailing in the fummer's drought;
Unmatch'd thy guardian oaks; thy valleys float
With golden waves and on thy mountains flocks
Bleat numberlefs; while, roving round their fides,
Bellow the blackening herds in lufty droves.
Beneath, thy meadows glow, and rife unquell'd
Against the mower's fcythe. On every hand
Thy villas fhine. Thy country teems with wealth;
And property affures it to the fwain,

Pleas'd, and unwearied, in his guardian toil.

Full are thy cities with the fons of art;

And trade and joy, in every bufy street,

Mingling are heard: even Drudgery himself,
As at the car he fweats, or dufty hews

The palace-ftone, looks gay. Thy crowded ports,
Where rifing mafts an endless profpect yield,

With labour burn, and echo to the fhouts
Of hurry'd failor, as he hearty waves
His laft adieu, and loofening every fheet,
Refigns the fpreading veffel to the wind."
Bold, firm, and graceful, are thy generous youth,
By hardship finew'd, and by danger fir'd,

Scattering

Scattering the nations where they go; and first
Or on the lifted plain, or ftormy feas.

Mild are thy glories too, as o'er the plans
Of thriving peace thy thoughtful fires prefide;
In genius, and fubftantial learning, high;
For every virtue, every worth renown'd;
Sincere, plain-hearted, hofpitable, kind;
Yet, like the muftering thunder when provok'd,
The dread of tyrants, and the fole refource
Of those that under grim oppreffion groan.
Thy Sons of Glory many! Alfred thine,.
In whom the fplendour of heroic war, br
And more heroic peace, when govern'd well;
Combine whofe hallow'd name the virtues faint,
And his own Mufes love; the beft of Kings!
With him thy Edwards and thy Henrys fhine,
Names dear to fame, the firft who deep imprefs'd
On haughty Gaul the terror of thy arms,
That awes her genius ftill. In Statefmen thou,
And Patriots, fertile. Thine a steady More,
Who, with a generous, tho' miftaken zeal,
Withstood a brutal tyrant's ufeful-rage,
Like Cato firm, like Ariftides juft,
Like rigid Cincinnatus nobly poor,-

A dauntless foul erect, who fmil'd on death.-
Frugal, and wife, a Walfingham is thine;
A Drake, who made thee miftrefs of the deep,
And bore thy name in thunder round the world.
Then fram'd thy fpirit high: but who can fpeak
The numerous worthies of the Maiden Reign?
In Raleigh mark their every glory mix'd;
Raleigh, the fcourge of Spain! whose breaft with all
The fage, the patriot, and the hero burn'd.
Nor funk his vigour, when a coward reign
The warrior fetter'd, and at laft refign'd,
To glut the vengeance of a vanquifh'd foe.
Then, active ftill and unreftrain'd, his mind
Explor'd the vaft extent of ages paft,
And with his prifon-hours enrich'd the world;
Yet found no times, in all the long research,
So glorious, or fo bafe, as thofe he prov'd,
In which he conquer'd, and in which he bled.
Nor can the Mufe the gallant Sidney pass,
The plume of war! with early laurels crown'd,