VERSES WRITTEN IN LONDON ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. EARLY the sun his radiant axle guides, Sloping his steep course with the Pleiades; On every fragant briar the flowret blooms, And the wild woodlark chaunts his early song In heedless carol, to the smiling Hours, Young Maia's festive train; their wavy dance She jocund leads, and from her horn profuse Pours roses, violets, woodbines, eglantine, Fair Flora's dower, what time the youthful Spring Clasp'd her all-blushing in a secret bower: Thou the mild offspring of their warm embrace, Oh lovely May, and these thine heritage, Which bounteous thou with an unsparing hand Scatterest to all, tho' chief thou lov'st to deck The village Phaebe's brow, and fairer far Is thy adorning, than the sunny glow Of eastern ruby, ill assorted grace That decks not but deforms the faded cheek Of the wan courtier. — Far more raptur'd greets Fancy's sond ear, where'er she musing roves, Thy minstrelsy untutor'd, than the trill And languid descant of Italian art. Yet sings the woodlark, and the hawthorn blooms, Unheard the song, the fragrance unperceiv'd By me; tho' not among the sons of men There lives, who listens with more raptur'd ear, Or feels more lively, Nature's varied boon. For tho' confined in the city walls To dwell with busy Care, and with him watch The call of Interest, is my lot affix'd, Far happier seems to me the peasant's life, Who treads the furrow labouring, yet his mind Vacant of thought can muse of what around Strikes his rapt eye with beauty, or his ear With pleasing song, than if a golden mine Disclos'd its boundless treasures, but condemn'd My carking thought, to watch the gilded mischief, And cunningly devise t' increase the store. Bereav'd of every pleasure Nature gives Each plain but heart-felt rapture, what is wealth? In artful mazes we but toil for bliss: True Pleasure dwells not in the arched roof, She sings no carol to the midnight ball; The loaded board and Bacchus' flustering draughts In vain are tryed, for ah she dwells not there! She dwells not with such rude ill-manner'd mirth, But seeks with her mild sister Chearfulness The russet plain; there prompts the virgin's song, Breathes the brisk carol from the cottage reed, Strikes the quick tabor glad with echoing pulse, And animates the village holiday. Nor then alone but when his honest labour Calls the good swain, she early joins his step; For the mild radiance of the opening dawn Gives to her sight the wide-extended view Of hill and dale, hoar forest, flowering heath, Rich harvest, verdant meadow, where the stream Rolls far its plenteous wave, and all around To Pleasure's ear most grateful, thousand birds, Lark, linnet, thrush, and thou of all the grove The sweetest songster, witching Philomel, Art rising to hymn out thy morning song. Thou too at eve, when all his labour o'er, He at the furrow's end unyokes the steer, And seeks with weary step his rest at home, Dost with thy tranquil warble sooth his soul; Best prelude to the peace his cottage gives. There at the door his numerous offspring watch Their sire's return, and eager run to tell The tyding of his coming, while his dame Plys her glad evening care, to deck the board With food uncater'd by the baleful hand Of Luxury, and fittest to refresh His toil-worn spirit, and her smiling welcome Gives its due relish to the simple fare. What are to this the proud luxurious feasts, The City's boast, where distant colonies Of East and Western worlds must be explor'd To strike the sickly palate's feeble sense With faint delight? Oh what are all our joys, Ev'n those of monarchs, to the thousand beauties That strike the rapt soul of the rudest hind? Can Art's best mimicry their form express? Can rich Loraine mix up the glowing tint Bright as Aurora? Can he form a shade To strike the fancy with a gloom so solemn As every thicket, copse, or secret grove At twilight hour affords? Can savage Rosa With aught so wildly noble fill the mind, As where the ancient oak in the wood's depth Has shed his leafy honours, and around The woodman with fell axe has lower'd the pride Of many a tall tree, he deserted stands A barren trunk, while rude winds howl around, And dreary torrents lash his naked limbs? Mean time the rifting thunder dreadful roars, The livid lightnings flash, and elements Conjoin'd pour out their wrath, as if to rend The lone, defenceless, aged, feeble oak. Such scenes awake Imagination's powers To sacred thought; such Rosa cannot paint; 'Tis his alone to show the shatter'd trunk: The winds keen howl, the thunder's aweful sound, The dreary rain, these mock the pencil's power. Can aught of artful music sooth the soul To so serene a temper, as the flight Of songsters in the grove? or can thy strain, (Tho' there Enchantment strike the magic chord) Oh matchless Purcell! with so wild a charm Transport the mind, as when at dusk of eve From the hoar battlement the lone owl's cry Pierces the awful silence, and the fall'n And time-worn hollow towers convey the sound To the near wood, where in the devious path Retired Fancy wanders, on her ear The faint sound murmurs, strait the distant low Of unyok'd heifer, strait the cuckow's note She hears, while oft the roving Zephyr's tread Rustling alarms her, and the measur'd step Of the slow steer, who brushes thro' the thicket To seek his food, beats duly regular. As on he wanders, thro' the opening bower He sees the pale moon rising; clouds on clouds Pil'd mountainous awhile obstruct her beam, Till labouring thence she lifts her silver brow, And pours her full ray on the ivy'd steeple. And hark its bell now tolls the minute knell, And thro' the churchway path the surplic'd priest Walks slowly forward, while the snowy pall Covering the relicks of some love lorn virgin, Passes with aweful pace along the glade. Wrapt harmonist! what tho' thy studied chord Can sound the slow knell, echo to the note The lone owl utters, breathe the heifer's low, And mark the funeral step with pausing cadence, And music can no more, where is the tower O'er-hung with-ivy, seen by the pale moon, Whose faint beam glimmers on the snowy pall? Where are the rocky clouds from whence she breaks? Yet do not these, does not the rustling breeze And the slow-treading heifer add delight? Do not accordant senses join to fill The musing mind with calm and holy rapture? And can the city by the utmost force Of mimic art, with labour'd imitation So soothe the soul, or give such mild delight? Ye gay and sportive votaries of Joy, Forgive the thoughtless Muse, for she has led me To talk of pleasing horror, and the bliss Which melancholy gives; ye cannot form Amid the circling follies, which urge on Your laughing hours, perhaps ye cannot form A notion of these joys, and with a taunt Of high contempt, despise the wild enthusiasm. Yet on the well-trod stage have ye not seen Your Roscius fired by the natural bard, Immortal Shakespear, wander the bleak heath A poor and outcast king, nor blame the winds Whose keen tooth seiz'd his age, nor chide the elements For their unkindness, while the ruffling storm Tore the proud garments from his shivering trunk, And the fierce lightnings fir'd his maddening brain? Have you not then felt horror? Would ye not Change your rich pomp for Edgar's naked hovel, And be the poor king's host? — Have ye not wish'd To range with Rosaline the forest wild, Or live beneath the shelter of some oak With melancholy Jaques? Tell me, why then Ye look'd on wealth and greatness with a scorn? Why but because the Muse with native strength Pour'd truth on Fancy's eye; and yet the Muse Can only boast in the most warm description A faint resemblance, nor has she such force To strike as Nature has. Alas! her voice But wakes remembrance of our absent bliss; And when she sings of incense-breathing Spring, She wafts no odours to the longing sense, But only prompts our sigh, that we must dwell Confin'd in the full city, distant far From every scene of rural innocence, Whose woods, whose shades, whose storms, or funerals, Ev'n raise a sense of pleasure. What can then The brighter views, what can the happy hour That gives the blushing bride to the true arms Of faithful Damon? Thenot pleas'd revives To former youth, and gayest of the day Provokes the village mirth, and from his soul Enjoys the spousal of his boy, who scarce (O'ercome with rapture) can himself conduct His festival; and but for busy Thenot, Each due right were neglected, and the guests Unbidden by the tabor's sprightly sound To seek the green, and in the jocund dance Each maiden with her youth breathe sport and joy, Save the still happier pair: their greater bliss Fills the whole breast, nor leaves a vacant place For lighter mirth. Unnotic'd speaks the pipe: They hear no sound but the endearing voice Of mutual love: they do not mark the joy In every face around; for their attention, Fix'd on each other, watches every glance Diffused by the lovely languid eye. Well may all else be unperceiv'd; for who Observes bright Hesper dart his pointed ray, When riding high mild Cynthia pours serene Her steady beam. Oh tell me, when compar'd To these true raptures, what's the shadowy pomp And artful splendour, when the golden shackles Fetter two venal souls, by interest call'd To prostitute the ever-hallow'd rites Of holy Hymen? — On the village plain Nought joins but mutual love; no sordid motive Promotes unnatural union; but the flame That first united glows throughout their life A steady fire, whose unabating light Gilds Youth with rapture, and with fostering warmth Chears drooping Age, who smiling sees his offspring Step forth to claim the joys he celebrates With annual hospitality, what time The circling year brings round the happy day That shower'd down blessings on him, when it gave To his fond vow the willing Sylvia's charms, Then blooming young, now hoary, but her heart Unchang'd by time; for still the same desire To add to every joy, or fondly soothe Each woe he feels, reigns unabated there. His social roof receives each welcome guest, His open heart diffuses round his pleasure, And each plain neighbour with unfeigning tongue Congratulates his bliss. Who would not leave For these sincere delights, the pageant pomp, The rich array, the courtly formal speech Unutter'd by the heart, the birth-day wish Of venal hirelings, who for interest croud The glittering levee? Happier (Reason deems View'd in each light) the simple village life, Than all that courtiers wish, or kings bestow. Kings cannot give a boon of so rich price As are thy smiles, O lovely Health! and thou Shunning the tumult, to the rural green Retirest. There, not built by mortal hand, Stands on the southern slope of the fresh hill Thy temple, from whose roof the eglantine And vagrant woodbine hang; and at the porch Sits thy good priestess Ease, administring To Exercise (who up the gentle slope By moderate footing moves) the holy cup Of Temperance, nymph of the crystal spring That dwells beneath thy altar; and from thence Warbling with gentle lapse joins the full stream, That winding wild delays its silver course In the rich mead, whose bank the peasant oft Approaches to allay his thirst, and quaffs The simple beverage from the limpid fount. Bright virgin, thee of all the Powers who range The rural plain, I woo with constant vow Most ardent! Deign around my temples bind Thy fragrant wreath, and deck my purpled cheek With thy rich glow. Then undisturb'd the mind Musing pursues its holy meditation, And rapt in trance, can trace a thousand gifts Shower'd by the gracious hand of Nature's King To deck the various field. The wondering eye Roams o'er the fair creation; then to heaven Unbidden soars; for the full soul imprest With holy transport, there directs its view From whence its blessings flow, and the rapt voice Accordant hymns the grateful song of praise. The rapid gusts of passion, which or pride, Or folly, or the thousand varying forms Of courtly affectation ever raise, Here all subside, and the composed breast Expands with love, and to its utmost power Diffuses blessings to mankind, nor fears Ingratitude should check, or pride should spurn The offer'd bounties of the generous heart. Bless'd be the day, and doubly bless'd the hour, When my Fidele with unfeigned vow Gave her fond hand, and own'd her constant love: Tho' since that hour already thrice the sun From every sign has seen our growing bliss; And tho' thy smile of unaffected love Adds joy to every joy, and charms to ease The brow of Care; tho' thou art all that heaven Could give in woman, tenderness, and truth, And all my heart e'er wish'd, when warmest Fancy Form'd the fond future view of houshold bliss; Yet happier still perhaps our lot had been, Hadst thou beneath the rural thatch receiv'd My faithful vow, and we had never heard Of town or city life; a Marian thou, And rustic Corin I. Then on the plain Contented we had pass'd Life's little day. While Youth with sprightly beam illum'd her hours, They would move on with joy; and when at noon Firm Manhood call'd us forth to till the soil, And with our labouring hand direct the plough, We would be ready, nor refuse the task, Due tribute to the public; till at eve Our vigour lost, when Age came creeping on, We would unyoke our heifers, and retire To welcome ease, our best skill then employ'd At our own home; attentive there to thatch The chinks which Time had made, and to root up Each foul weed that deform'd our little plot. This business over, calm we should attend Th' approaching hour of our eternal rest; And when it came, borne to our peaceful grave By the plain villager; what tho' no tomb Of sculptur'd marble call'd the passing eye To read our story, yet the cottage tear Should on our ashes fall, and the good heart O'erflow sincerely for a neighbour lost: Upon our bier the virgin troop would hang Fresh-woven chaplets of the sweetest flowers: Green turf should deck our grave; and every year In spring-time would some friendly hand with care Bind the fresh briar around, to guard the place From the rude insult of the careless step; And faithful Memory to late time record, We were the happiest pair of human kind.