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That whirl away from business and debate
The disencumber'd Atlas of the state,
Ask not the boy, who, when the breeze of morn
First shakes the glittering drops from every thorn,
Unfolds his flock, then under bank or bush
Sits linking cherry-stones, or platting rush,
How fair is Freedom ?--he was always free
To carve his rustic name upon a tree,
To snare the mole, or with ill-fashion'd hook
To draw the incautious minnow from the brook,
Are life's prime pleasures in his simple view,
His flock the chief concern he ever knew;
She shines but little in his heedless eyes,
The good we never miss we rarely prize:
But ask the noble drudge in state affairs,
Escaped from office and its constant cares,
What charms he sees in Freedom's smile express'd,
In Freedom lost so long, now repossess'd;
The tongue, whose strains were cogent as commands,
Revered at home, and felt in foreign lands,
Shall own itself a stammerer in that cause,
Or plead its silence as its best applause.
He knows indeed that whether dress'd or rude,
Wild without art, or artfully subdued,
Nature in every form inspires delight,
But never mark'd her with so just a sight.
Her hedge-row shrubs, a variegated store,
With woodbine and wild roses martled o'er,
Green balks and furrow'd lands, the stream, that spreads
Its cooling vapour o'er the dewy meads,
Downs, that almost escape the inquiring eye,
That melt and fade into the distant sky,
Beauties he lately slighted as he pass’d,
Seem all created since he traveli'd last.
Master of all the enjoyments he design'd,
No rough annoyance rankling in his mind,
What early philosophic hours he keeps,
How regular his meals, how sound he sleeps !
Not-sounder he, that on the mainmast head,
While morning kindles with a windy red,
Begins a long look-out for distant land,
Nor quits till evening-watch his giddy stand;

Then swift descending with a seaman's haste, Slips to his hammock, and forgets the blast. He chooses company, but not the squire's, Whose wit is rudeness, whose good-breeding tires; Nor yet the parsou’s, who would gladly come, Obsequious when abroad, though proud at home: Nor can he much affect the neighbouring peer, Whose toe of emulation treads too near ; But wisely seeks a more convenient friend, With whom, dismissing forms, he may unbend: A man, whom marks of condescending grace Teach, while they flatter him, his proper place; Who comes when call'd, and at a word withdraws, Speaks with reserve, and listens with applause; Some plain mechanic, who, without pretence To birth or wit, nor gives nor takes offence; On whom he rests well-pleased his weary powers, And talks and laughs away his vacant hours. The tide of life, swift always in its course, May run in cities with a brisker force, But no where with a current so serene, Or half so clear, as in the rural scene. Yet how fallacious is all earthly bliss, What obvious truths the wisest heads may miss ! Some pleasures live a month, and some a year, But short the date of all we gather here; No happiness is feli, except the true, That does not charm the more for being new. This observation, as it chanced, not made, Or, if the thought occurr'd, not duly weigh’d, He sighs-for after all, by slow degrees, The spot he loved has lost the power to please ; To cross his ambling pony day by day, Seems at the best but dreaming life away; The prospect, such as might enchant despair, He views it not, or sees no beauty there; With aching heart, and discontented looks, Returns at noon to billiards or to books, But feels, while grasping at his faded joys, A secret thirst of his renounced employs. He chides the tardiness of every post, Pants to be told of battles won or lost,

Blames his own indolence, observes, though late,
'Tis criminal to leave a sinking state,
Flies to the levée, and received with grace,
Kneels, kisses hands, and shines again in place.

Suburban villas, highway-side retreats,
That dread the encroachment of our growing streets,
Tight boxes, neatly sash’d, and in a blaze
With all a July sun's collected rays,
Delight the citizen, who gasping there,
Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air.
O sweet retirement, who would balk the thought
That could afford retirement, or could not ?
'Tis such an easy walk, so smooth and straight,
The second milestone fronts the garden-gate:
A step if fair, and, if a shower approach,
You find safe shelter in the next stage-coach.
There, prisoned in a parlour snug and small,
Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall,
The man of business and his friends compress'd,
Forget their labours, and yet find no rest;
But still ’tis rural-trees are to be seen
From every window, and the fields are green
Ducks paddle in the pond before the door,
And what could a remoter scene shew more;
A sense of elegance we rarely find
The portion of a mean or vulgar mind,
And ignorance of better things makes man,
Who cannot much, rejoice in what he can;
And he, that deems his leisure well bestow'd
In contemplation of a turnpike road,
Is occupied as well, employs his hours
As wisely, and as much improves his powers,
As he that slumbers in pavilions graced
With all the charms of an accomplish'd taste.
Yet hence, alas ! insolvencies; and hence
The unpitied victim of ill-judged expense,
From all his wearisome engagements freed,
Shakes hands with business, and retires indeed.

Your prudent grandmammas, ye modern belles, Content with Bristol, Bath, and Tunbridge-wells, When health required it would consent to roam, Else more attach'd to pleasures found at home.

But now alike, gay widow, virgin, wife,
Ingenious to diversify dull life,
In coaches, chaises, caravans, and hoys,
Fly to the coast for daily, nightly joys;
And all, impatient of dry land, agree
With one consent to rush into the sea.-
Ocean exhibits, fathomless and broad,
Much of the power and majesty of God.
He swathes about the swelling of the deep,
That shines and rests, as infants smile and sleep;
Vast as it is, it answers as it flows
The breathings of the lightest air that blows;
Curling and whitening over all the waste,
The rising waves obey the increasing blast,
Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars,
Thunder and flash upon the steadfast shores,
Till He, that rides the whirlwind, checks the rein
Then all the world of waters sleeps again.
Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads,
Now in the floods, now panting in the meads,
Votaries of pleasure still, where'er she dwells,
Near barren rocks, in palaces, or cells,

grant a poet leave to recommend
A poet fond of nature, and your friend)
Her slighted works to your admiring view;
Her works must needs excel, who fashion'd you.
Would ye, when rambling in your morning ride,
With some unmeaning coxcomb at your side,
Condemn the prattler for his idle pains,
To waste unheard the music of his strains,
And, deaf to all the impertinence of tongue,
That, while it courts, affronts, and does you wrong,
Mark well the finish'd plan without a fault,
The seas globose and huge, the o'er-arching vault,
Earth's millions daily fed, a world employ'd
In gathering plenty yet to be enjoy'd,
Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise
Of God beneficent in all his ways;
Graced with such wisdom, how would beauty shine'
Ye want but that to seem indeed divine.

Anticipated rents, and bills unpaid, Force

many a shining youth into the shade,

Not to redeem his time, but his estate,
And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate.
There, hid in loathed obscurity, removed
From pleasures left, but never more beloved,
He just endures, and with a sickly spleen
Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming scene.
Nature indeed looks prettily in rhyme;
Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime:
The warblings of the blackbird, clear and strong,
Are musical enough in Thomson's song;
And Cobham's groves and Windsor's green retreats,
When Pope describes them, have a thousand sweets;
He likes the country, but in truth must own
Most likes it, when he studies it in town.

Poor Jack-no matter who—for when I blame,
I pity, and must therefore sink the name,
Liv'd in his saddle, loved the chase, the course,
And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.
The estate, his sires had own'd in ancient years,
Was quickly distanced, match'd against a peer's.
Jack vanish'd, was regretted and forgot;
'Tis wild good-nature's never-failing lot.
At length when all had long supposed him dead,
By cold submersion, razor, rope, or lead,
My lord, alighting at his usual place,
The Crown, took notice of an ostler's face.
Jack knew his friend, but hoped in that disguise
He might escape the most observing eyes.
And whistling, as if unconcern'd and gay,
Curried his nag, and look'd another way.
Convinced at last, upon a nearer view,
'Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew,
O'erwhelm'd at once with wonder, grief, and joy,
He press'd him much to quit his base employ;
His countenance, his purse, his heart, his hand,
Influence and power, were all at his command:
Peers are not always gen'rous as well bred,
But Granby was, meant truly what he said.
Jack bow'd, and was obliged-confess' d 'twas stranger
That so retired he should not wish a change,
But knew no medium between guzzling beer,
And his old stint-three thousand pounds a-year

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