By restless undulation; ev'n the oak
Thrives by the rude concuffion of the storm;
He seems indeed indignant, and to feel
Th' impreffion of the blast with proud disdain,
Frowning as if in his unconscious arm
His firm, ftability to what he scorns,
More fixt below, the more disturb'd above.
The law by which all creatures elfe are bound, Binds man the lord of all.
No mean advantage from a kindred cause,
From ftrenuous toil his hours of sweetest case,
The fedentary stretch their lazy length
When custom bids, but no refreshment find,
For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek
Deferted of its bloom, the flaccid, fhrunk,
And wither'd muscle, and the vapid foul,
Reproach their owner with that love of rest
To which he forfeits ev'n the rest he loves.
Not fuch th' alert and active. Measure life
By its true worth, the comforts it affords,
And theirs alone feem worthy of the name,
Good health, and its affociate in the moft,
Good temper; fpirits prompt to undertake,
And not foon spent, though in an arduous task ;
The pow'rs of fancy and ftrong thought are theirs;
Ev'n age itself seems privileg'd in them
With clear exemption from its own defects.
A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front
The vet'ran shows, and gracing a grey beard
With youthful fmiles, defcends toward the grave
Sprightly, and old almost without decay.
Like a coy maiden, eafe, when courted most,
Fartheft retires-an idol, at whose shrine
Who oft'neft facrifice are favor'd least.
The love of Nature, and the scenes fhe draws
Who felf-imprifon'd in their proud faloons,
Renounce the odors of the open field
For the unfcented fictions of the loom.
Who fatisfied with only pencil'd scenes,
Prefer to the performance of a God
Th' inferior wonders of an artist's hand.
Lovely indeed the mimic works of art,
But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire-
None more admires the painter's magic skill,
Who fhews me that which I fhall never fee,
Conveys a distant country into mine,
And throws Italian light on English walls.
But imitative strokes can do no more
Than please the eye, fweet Nature ev'ry sense.
The air falubrious of her lofty hills,
The chearing fragrance of her dewy vales
And mufic of her woods-no works of man
May rival thefe; these all befpeak a power
Peculiar, and exclusively her own.
Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;
'Tis free to all-'tis ev'ry day renew'd,
Who fcorns it, starves defervedly at home.
He does not scorn it, who imprison'd long
In some unwhole fome dungeon, and a prey
To fallow fickness, which the vapors dank
And clammy of his dark abode have bred,
Escapes at last to liberty and light.
His cheeks recovers foon its healthful hue,
His eye relumines its extinguish'd fires,
He walks, he leaps, he runs-is wing'd with joy,
And riots in the fweets of ev'ry breeze.
He does not scorn it, who has long endur'd
A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.
Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed
With acrid falts; his very heart athirst
To gaze at Nature in her green array.
Upon the ship's tall fide he stands, poffefs'd
With vifions prompted by intense defire;
Fair fields appear below, fuch as he left
Far diftant, fuch as he would die to find-
He feeks them headlong, and is feen no more.
The spleen is feldom felt where Flora reigns;
The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown,
And fullen fadnefs that o'erfhade, distort,
And mar the face of beauty, when no cause
For fuch immeafurable woe appears,
These Flora banishes, and gives the fair
Sweet fmiles and bloom lefs tranfient than her own. It is the conftant revolution stale
And taftelefs, of the fame repeated joys,
That palls and fatiates, and makes languid life
A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down.
Health fuffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart
Recoils from its own choice-at the full feast
Is famifh'd-finds no mufic in the fong,
No smartness in the jeft, and wonders why.
Yet thousands still defire to journey on,
Though halt and weary of the path they tread.
The paralytic who can hold her cards
But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand
To deal and shuffle, to divide and fort
Her mingled fuits and fequences, and fits
Spectatrefs both and spectacle, a fad
And filent cypher, while her proxy plays.
Others are dragg'd into the crowded room
Between supporters; and once feated, fit
Through downright inability to rise,
"Till the ftout bearers lift the corpfe again:
These speak a loud memento. Yet ev❜n these
Themfelves love life, and cling to it, as he
That overhangs a torrent, to a twig.
They love it, and yet loath it; fear to die,
Yet fcorn the purposes for which they live.
Then wherefore not renounce them? No-the
The flavish dread of folitude, that breeds
Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame,
And their invet'rate habits, all forbid.
Whom call we gay? That honor has been long
The boast of mere pretenders to the name.
The innocent are gay-the lark is gay
That dries his feathers faturate with dew
Beneath the rofy cloud, while yet the beams
Of day-spring overfhoot his humble nest.
The peasant too, a witness of his fong,
Himself a songster, is as gay as he.
But fave me from the gaiety of those
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