His breast to admiration prone Fatigued with form's oppressive laws, Does she not sweets in each fair valley find, Ah can she covet there to see The splendid slaves, the reptile race, That oil the tongue, and bow the knee, When from gay throngs, and gilded spires, To where the lonely halcyons play, While studious of the moral theme, She, to some smooth sequester'd stream Pleas'd from the flowery margin to survey, O blind to truth, to virtue blind, Should fame's wide-echoing trumpet swell; Each future age with rapture dwell; In all that glads the human heart; Yet these the spirits, form'd to judge and prove All nature's charms immense, and heaven's unbounded love... And oh the transport, most allied to song, To catch soft hints from nature's tongue, And bid Arcadia bloom around: Whether we fringe the sloping hill, Reflect flow'rs, woods, and spires, and brighten all the scene. O sweet disposal of the rural hour! While worth and genius haunt the favour'd bow'r, A train of helpless infants dear, And hails the bounteous work, and ranks it with her own. Why brand these pleasures with the name Of soft, unsocial toils, of indolence and shame? Search but the garden, or the wood, Let yon admir'd carnation own, Not all was meant for raiment or for food, Not all for needful use alone; There while the seeds of future blossoms dwell, Tis colour'd for the sight, perfum'd to please the smell. Why knows the nightingale to sing? Why flows the pine's nectareous juice? For preservation? Every sphere Shall bid fair pleasure's rightful claim appear. To sooth the certain ills of life; Grace its lone vales with many a budding rose, Call forth refreshing shades, and decorate repose. Smit with the glare of rank and place, To courts the sons of fancy flew; There long had art ordain'd a rival seat, To form a scene more dazzling fair, Had given the robe with grace to flow, And, emulous of nature's pow'r, Mimick'd the plume, the leaf, the flow'r; Awhile her magic strikes the novel eye, By sapphire lakes, thro' em'rald groves. Adieu the simple, the sincere delight- Be theirs alone who cultivate the soil, And drink the cup of thirst, and eat the bread of toil. But soon the pageant fades away! 'Tis nature only bears perpetual sway. |