But relaxation of the languid frame,
By foft recumbency of outftretch'd limbs,
Was blifs referv'd for happier days. So flow
The growth of what is excellent; fo hard
Tattain perfection in this nether world.
Thus firft neceffity invented ftools,
Convenience next fuggefted elbow-chairs,
And luxury th' accomplish'd soFA laft.
The nurfe fleeps fweetly, hir'd to watch the fick, Whom fnoring the difturbs. As fweetly he Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour To fleep within the carriage more fecure, His legs depending at the open door.
Sweet fleep enjoys the curate in his desk,
The tedious rector drawling o'er his head;
And sweet the clerk below. But neither fleep
Of lazy nurse, who fnores the fick man dead,
Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour
To flumber in the carriage more secure,
Nor fleep enjoy'd by curate in his desk,
Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet,
Compar'd with the repofe the soFA yields.
Oh may I live exempted (while I live
Guiltless of pamper'd appetite obscene)
From pangs arthritic, that infeft the toe
Of libertine excefs. The SOFA fuits
The gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb,
Though on a sofa, may I never feel:
For I have lov'd the rural walk through lanes Of graffy fwarth, clofe cropt by nibbling sheep, And fkirted thick with intertexture firm
Of thorny boughs; have lov'd the rural walk O'er hills, through vallies, and by rivers' brink, E'er fince a truant boy I pafs'd my bounds T'enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames; And ftill remember, nor without regret Of hours that forrow fince has much endear'd, How oft, my flice of pocket ftore confum'd, Still hung'ring, pennylefs and far from home, I fed on fcarlet hips and ftony haws, Or blufhing crabs, or berries, that imbofs The bramble, black as jet, or floes auftere. Hard fare! but fuch as boyish appetite Difdains not; nor the palate, undeprav'd By culinary arts, unfav'ry deems. No SOFA then awaited my return;
Nor SOFA then I needed. Youth repairs
His wafted fpirits quickly, by long toil
Incurring fhort fatigue; and, though our years
As life declines fpeed rapidly away,
And not a year but pilfers as he
Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep; A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees
Their length and colour from the locks they spare;
Th' elastic spring of an unwearied foot
That mounts the style with eafe, or leaps the fence,
That play of lungs, inhaling and again
Refpiring freely the fresh air, that makes
Swift pace or fteep ascent no toil to me,
Mine have not pilfer'd yet; nor yet impair'd
My relish of fair profpect; fcenes that footh'd
Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find
Still foothing, and of pow'r to charm me still.
And witnefs, dear companion of my walks,
Whofe arm this twentieth winter I perceive
Faft lock'd in mine, with pleasure fuch as love,
Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth
And well-tried virtues, could alone infpire-
Witnefs a joy that thou haft doubled long.
Thou know'ft my praise of nature most fincere,
And that my raptures are not conjur'd up
To ferve occafions of poetic pomp,
But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our pace
Has flacken'd to a paufe, and we have born
The ruffling wind, fcarce confcious that it blew,
While admiration, feeding at the eye,
* And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.
Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd
The diftant plough flow moving, and beside
His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track,
The sturdy fwain diminish'd to a boy!
Here Oufe, flow winding through a level plain
Of fpacious meads with cattle fprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along his finuous course
Delighted. There, faft rooted in their bank,
Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms,
That fcreen the herdfman's folitary hut;
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,
The floping land recedes into the clouds;
Displaying on its varied fide the grace
Of hedge-row beauties numberlefs, fquare tow'r,
Tall fpire, from which the found of cheerful bells
Juft undulates upon the lift'ning ear,
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily view'd,
Please daily, and whofe novelty furvives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Praife juftly due to those that I describe.
Nor rural fights alone, but rural founds, Exhilarate the fpirit, and restore
The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,
That sweep the skirt of fome far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make mufic not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding fhore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind:
Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves faft flutt'ring, all at once.
Nor lefs composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the fofter voice
Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills that flip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grafs, that with a livelier green
Betrays the fecret of their filent course.
Nature inanimate employs sweet founds,
|