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Yet he was kind, or if fevere in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault :
The village all declar'd how much he knew ;
'Twas certain he could write and cypher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides pre-
fage,

And e'en the ftory ran that he could gage:

In arguing too the parfon own'd his skill,
For e'en though vanquifh'd, he could argue
ftill;

While words of learned length and thund'ring
found,

Amaz'd the gazing rusticks rang❜d around,
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew,
That one fmall head could carry all he knew.

The description of the Village Alehoufe, contains domeftick minutiæ, of a kind, which must neceffarily have pleased in the original, but which the hand of a master alone, could have made to please in the copy. That learned and judicious Critick, Dr. Warton, in his Effay on the Writings and Genius of Pope, justly observes, that The use,

the force, and the excellence of language, confifts in raifing clear, com• plete,

• plete, and circumftantial images, and in turning readers into fpectators.' This theory he exemplifies, by quoting two paffages from his author, in which, he fays, that every epithet paints its object, and paints it distinctly.' The fame may be faid with equal justice of the following:

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Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the fign-poft caught the paffing

eye;

Low lies that house, where nut-brown draughts infpir'd,

Where grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil retir'd;

Where village ftatesmen talk'd with looks
profound,

And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace,

The parlour fplendors of that festive place;
The white-wafh'd wall, the nicely fanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the
door;

The cheft contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goofe;

The

The hearth, except when winter chill'd the
day,

With afpen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay,
While broken tea cups wifely kept for show,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glitter'd in a row.

This fine poetical inventory of the furniture, is fully equalled by the character of the guests, and the detail of their amufements. The negative mode of expreffion, Thither no more, &c.' by fixing the mind on the past, adds a kind of pleasing regretful pathos :

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Vain tranfitory fplendors! could not all
Reprieve the tottering manfion from its fall!
Obfcure it finks, nor fhall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peasant shall repair,
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;

No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad fhall prevail;
No more the smith his dusty brow shall clear,
Relax his pond'rous ftrength, and lean to hear;
The hoft himself no longer shall be found,
Careful to fee the mantling blifs go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,
Shall kifs the cup to pass it to the reft.

This is not poetical fiction, but historical truth. We have here no imaginary Arcadia, but the real country; no poetical fwains, but the men who actually drive the plough, or wield the fcythe, the fickle, the hammer, or the hedging bill. But though But though nothing is invented, fomething is fuppreffed. The ruftick's hour of relaxation is too rarely fo innocent; it is too often contaminated with extravagance, anger, and profanity: defcribing vice and folly, however, will not prevent their exifting; and it is agreeable to forget for a moment, the reality of their existence.

The foregoing defcription not unnaturally introduces the following reflec

tions:

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These fimple bleffings of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the glofs of art;

Spontaneous

Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The foul adopts, and owns their first-born fway :
Lightly they frolick o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvy'd, unmolested, unconfin'd.

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In these, e're triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure fickens into pain;
And, ev'n while Fashions brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?

The fentiment here is better than the expreffion. The Poet is probably right in his fuppofition, that the pleasures of the rich are less genuine and lively than those of the poor; but his language is far from being fimple or perfpicuous. That intention and parade raife expectations which will be mostly disappointed; that the joys which are unanticipated, and unconstrained, or independent of the will of others, are the best; were undoubtedly the axioms intended to be conveyed in these lines, Spontaneous joys, &c.' By Spontaneous joys, we must understand, joys which without

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