SECTION VIII,

The pleasures of retirement. O knew he but his happiness, of men The happiest be! who, far from public rage, Deep in the vale, with a choice few retird, Drioks the pure pleasures of the rural life. What tho' the dome be wanting, whose proud gate, Each morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd Of flatterers false, and in their turn abus'd ? Vile intercourse. What though the glittring robe, Of ev'ry bue reflected light can give, Or floated loose, or stiff with mazy gold, Tbe pride and gaze of fools, oppress him not? What tho’, from utmost land and sea purvey'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’ be knows not those fantastic joys, That still amuse the wanton, stilt deceive ; A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain : Their hollow moments undelighted all ? Sure peace is his ; a solid life estrang'd To disappointment, and fallacious bope. Rich in content, in nature's bounty rich, In herbs and fruits ; whatever greens the spring, When heaven descends in showers ; 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 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 bay ; Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song, Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountains clear. Here too dwells simple truth ; plain innocence e ; Upsullied beauty; sound unbroken youth, Patient of labour, with a little pleas'd;

Health ever blooming ; unambitious toil ;
Calm contemplation, and poetic ease.-THOMSON.

SECTION IX.
The pleasure and benefit of an improved and well-directed

imagination.
Oh! blest of Heaven, who not the languid songs
Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes
or sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave
Those ever bloomiog sweets, which, from the store
Of nature, fair imagination cnils,
To charin the enliven'd soul! What tho' not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the height
Of envy?d life; tho only few possess
* Patrician treasures, or imperial state ;

Yet nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures, and an ampler state,
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will cign to use them. His ihe city's pomp,
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column, and the arch,
The breathing marble and the sculptur'd gold,
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,
His taneļu! breast enjoys. For him, the spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds : for him, the hand
Of autumo ringes every fertile branch
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morni.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings.
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o’er the meadow ; not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence ; not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends ; but wbence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure, uureprov'd. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only; for the attentive mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home,
To find a kindred order; to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,

This fair inspir'd delight: ber temper'd pow'rs
Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.
But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze
On nature's form, where, negligent of all
These lesser graces, she assomes the port
Or that Eternal Majesty that weigh'd
The world's foundations, if to these the mind
Exalts her daring eye ; then mightier far
Will be the change, and, nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp ber gen'rous pow'rs ?
Would sordid policies, the barb'rous growth
Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear;
Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course,
The elements and seasons: all declare
For what th' eternal MakER has ordain'd
The powers of man: : we feel within ourselves
His energy divine : he tells the heart,
He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb
Of life and being ; to be great like Him,
Beneficent and active. Thus the men
Whom nature's works instruct, with God himself
Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions ; act upon his plan ;
And form to his, the relish of their souls.- AXENSIÇE.

CHAP. V.

PATHETIC PIECES.

SECTION I.

The Hermit.
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove;
When dought but the torrent is heard on the bill,

And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove : 'Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar,

While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ; No more with himself or with nature at war,

He thought as a sage, tho he felt as a man..

6 Ah! why, all abandon’d to darkness and wo ;

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And sorrow, no longer thy bosom inthral.
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,

*Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls ihee to mourn : O sooth him whose pleasures like thine pass away:

Full quickly they pass--but they never return."
- Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,

The moon half extinguish'd her crescent displays
But lately I mark”d, when majestic on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue

The path that conducts thee to splendour again :
But man's faded glory what chance shall renew!

Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain !"
86 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more :

1 mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you:
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,

Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew:
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save :
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn!

O when shall day dawo on the night of the grave!"
66 'Twas thus by the glare of false science betray'd,

That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blindi
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
O pity, great Father of light, then I cried,

Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee!
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride :

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free." 56 And darkness and doubt are now flying away ;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn :
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
Sce truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending,

And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom !
On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending,

And beauty immortal awak'es from the tomb.". BEATTIE

SECTION II,

The beggar's petition. Pity the sorrows of a poor

old

man, Whose trembling limbs have, borne him to your door ; Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;

Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,

These hoary locks proclaimi my lengthen'd years ; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,

Has been the channel to a flood of tears. Yon house, erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect drew me from my

road; For plenty there a residence has found,

And grandeur a magnificent abode. Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!

Hers, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread, A pamper'd menial drove me from the door,

To seek a shelter in an humbler shed. Oh ! take me to your hospitable dome;

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb;

For I am poor, and miserably old. Should I reveal the sources of my grief,

If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,

And tears of pity would not be represt. Heaven sends misfortunes ; why should we repine ? 'Tis Heaven has brougbt me to the state you see i condition

inay be soon like mine, The child of sorrow and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot;

Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn : But ah ! Oppression forc'd me from my cot,

My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. My daughter, once the comfort of my age,

Lur'd by a villain from her native home, Is cast abandon’d on the world's wide stage,

And door'd in scanty poverty to roam. My tender wife, sweet soother of my care !

Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,

And your