Hence chartered boroughs are such public plagues; And burghers, men immaculate perhaps
In all their private functions, once combined, Become a loathsome body, only fit For dissolution, hurtful to the main. Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin° Against the charities of domestic life, Incorporated, seem at once to lose Their nature, and, disclaiming all regard For mercy and the common rights of man, Build factories with blood, conducting trade
At the sword's point, and dyeing the white robe Of innocent commercial justice red.
Hence, too, the field of glory, as the world Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array, With all its majesty of thundering pomp, Enchanting music, and immortal wreaths, Is but a school, where thoughtlessness is taught On principle, where foppery atones For folly, gallantry for every vice.
But slighted as it is, and by the great Abandoned, and, which still I more regret, Infected with the manners and the modes It knew not once, the country wins me still. I never framed a wish, or formed a plan, That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss, But there I laid the scene. There early strayed My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice.
Had found me, or the hope of being free.
My very dreams were rural; rural too The first-born efforts of my youthful muse, Sportive and jingling her poetic bells
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers.
No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe
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Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang,
The rustic throng beneath his favorite beech. Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms: New to my taste, his Paradise surpassed The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue To speak its excellence. I danced for joy. I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age As twice seven years, his beauties had then first Engaged my wonder, and admiring still, And still admiring, with regret supposed The joy half lost, because not sooner found. There, too, enamored of the life I loved, Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit Determined and possessing it at last,
With transports such as favored lovers feel, I studied, prized, and wished that I had known, Ingenious Cowley°! and, though now reclaimed By modern lights from an erroneous taste, I cannot but lament thy splendid wit Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools;
I still revere thee, courtly though retired,
Though stretched at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers,°
Not unemployed, and finding rich amends
For a lost world in solitude and verse.
'Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works
Is an ingredient in the compound man,
Infused at the creation of the kind.
And, though the Almighty Maker has throughout Discriminated each from each, by strokes
And touches of His hand, with so much art
Diversified, that two were never found
Twins at all points - yet this obtains in all,
That all discern a beauty in His works,
And all can taste them: minds that have been
And tutored with a relish more exact,
But none without some relish, none unmoved.
It is a flame that dies not even there
Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds, Nor habits of luxurious city life,
Whatever else they smother of true worth In human bosoms, quench it or abate.
The villas with which London stands begirt, Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads, Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air,
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer The citizen, and brace his languid frame! E'en in the stifling bosom of the town;
A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,
Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well° He cultivates. These serve him with a hint That Nature lives; that sight-refreshing green Is still the livery she delights to wear, Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. What are the casements lined with creeping herbs, The prouder sashes fronted with a range Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,
The Frenchman's darling°? are they not all proofs That man, immured in cities, still retains His inborn inextinguishable thirst Of rural scenes, compensating his loss By supplemental shifts, the best he may?
The most unfurnished with the means of life,
And they, that never pass their brick-wall bounds, To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air, Yet feel the burning instinct; overhead Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick, And watered duly. There the pitcher stands A fragment, and the spoutless teapot there; Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets The country, with what ardor he contrives A peep at nature, when he can no more.
Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease And contemplation, heart-consoling joys And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode Of multitudes unknown! hail, rural life! Address himself who will to the pursuit Of honors, or emolument, or fame,
I shall not add myself to such a chase, Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. Some must be great. Great offices will have Great talents: and God gives to every man The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, That lifts him into life, and lets him fall Just in the niche he was ordained to fill. To the deliverer of an injured land
He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs; To monarchs, dignity, to judges, sense; To artists, ingenuity and skill;
To me, an unambitious mind, content In the low vale of life, that early felt
A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long
Found here that leisure and that ease I wished.
ARGUMENT OF THE FIFTH BOOK
The poultry Whimsical effects of The Empress of Russia's palace of
- Amusements of monarchs War, one of them Wars, whence And whence monarchy - The evils of English and French loyalty contrasted-The Bastile, and a prisoner there -Liberty the chief recommendation of this country
Modern patriotism questionable, and
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