For the unfcented fictions of the loom;
Who, fatisfy'd 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 shall never fee, Conveys a distant country into mine,
And throws Italian light on English walls: But imitative ftrokes 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 bespeak 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, ftarves defervedly at home.
He does not fcorn it, who, imprifon'd long In fome unwholefome dungeon, and a prey To fallow ficknefs, which the vapors, dank And clammy, of his dark abode have bred, Escapes at laft to liberty and light:
His cheek recovers foon its healthful hue, His eye relumines its extinguifh'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 fcorn it, who has long endur'd A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.
Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflam'd
With acrid falts; his very heart athirst
To gaze at Nature in her green array, Upon the fhip's tall fide he stands, poffefs'd With visions prompted by intenfe defire: Fair fields appear below, fuch as he left
Far diftant, fuch as he would die to find
He fecks them headlong, and is feen no more.
The fpleen is feldom felt where Flora reigns; The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown,
And fullen fadness, 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 fimiles, and bloom lefs tranfient than her own. It is the conftant revolution, ftale
And tastelefs, of the fame repeated joys,
That palls and fatiates, and makes languid life A pedler'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 ftill 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 fpectacle, a fad And filent cypher, while her proxy plays. Others are dragg'd into the crowded room Between fupporters; and, once feated, fit Through downright inability to rise,
Till the ftout bearers lift the corpfe again. Thefe fpeak a loud memento. Yet ev❜n thefe 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 dread,
The flavish dread of folitude, that breeds
Reflection and remorfe, the fear of shame,
And their invet'rate habits, all forbid.
Whom call we gay? That honor has been long The boaft 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 overshoot his humble nest. The peasant too, a witnefs of his fong, Himself a songster, is as gay as he.
But fave me from the gaiety of those
Whofe head-aches nail them to a noon-day bed; And fave me too from theirs whofe haggard eyes Flash desperation, and betray their pangs For property stripp'd off by cruel chance; From gaiety that fills the bones with pain, The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe.
The earth was made so various, that the mind Of defultory man, ftudious of change, And pleas'd with novelty, might be indulg'd. Profpects, however lovely, may be seen Till half their beauties fade; the weary fight, Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off Faftidious, seeking lefs familiar fcenes.
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