My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice Had found me, or the hope of being free. Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs. The ruftic throng beneath his fav'rite beech. The joy half loft because not fooner found. There, too, enamour'd of the life I lov'd, Pathetic in its praife, in its purfuit With transports fuch as favour'd lovers feel, I ftudied, priz'd, and wifh'd that I had known, I ftill revere thee, courtly though retir'd; For a loft world in folitude and verse. 'Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works Is an ingredient in the compound man, Infus'd at the creation of the kind. And, though th' Almighty Maker has throughout Discriminated each from each, by strokes And touches of his hand, with fo much art Diverfified, that two were never found Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all, That all difcern a beauty in his works, And all can taste them: minds that have been form'd And tutor❜d, with a relish more exact, But none without fome relish, none unmov'd. It is a flame that dies not even there, : Where nothing feeds it: neither bufinefs, crowds, Whatever else they fmother of true worth The glimpse of a green pafture, how they cheer Ev'n in the ftifling bofom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms He cultivates. Thefe ferve him with a hint That Nature lives; that fight-refreshing green Is ftill the liv'ry fhe delights to wear, Though fickly famples of th' exub'rant whole. What are the cafements lin'd with creeping herbs, The prouder fashes fronted with a range Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, * The Frenchman's darling? are they not all proofs That man, immur'd in cities, ftill retains His inborn inextinguishable thirst Of rural fcenes, compenfating his lofs The most unfurnifh'd with the means of life, And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick, * Mignonette. A fragment, and the spoutlefs tea-pot there Hail, therefore, patronefs of health, and ease, And contemplation, heart-consoling joys And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abode Of multitudes unknown! hail, rural life! Addrefs himself who will to the pursuit Of honours, or emoluments, or fame; I fhall not add myself to fuch a chase, Thwart his attempts, or envy his fuccess. Some must be great. Great offices will have Great talents. And God gives to ev'ry man. The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, That lifts him into life; and lets him fall Juft in the niche he was ordain'd to fill. To the deliv'rer of an injur❜d land He gives a tongue t' enlarge upon, an heart |