ODE TO A LADY WHO HATES THE COUNTRY.

BY THE SAME.

NOW Summer, daughter of the Sun,
 O'er the gay fields comes dancing on,
 And earth o'erflows with joys;
 Too long in routs and drawing-rooms,
 The tasteless hours my fair consumes
 'Midst folly, flattery, noise. 

Come hear mild Zephyr bid the rose
 Her balmy-breathing buds disclose,
 Come hear the falling rill;
 Observe the honey-loaded Bee,
 The beech-embower'd cottage see,
 Beside yon' sloping hill. 

By Health awoke at early morn,
 We'll brush sweet dews from every thorn,
 And help unpen the fold;
 Hence to yon hollow oak we'll stray,
 Where dwelt, as village-fables say,
 An holy Druid old. 

Come wildly rove thro' desart dales
 To listen how lone Nightingales
 In liquid lays complain;
 Adieu, the tender thrilling note,
 That pants in Monticelli's throat,
 And Handel's stronger strain. 

 "Insipid pleasures these! you cry,
" Must I from dear assemblies fly,
 "To see rude peasants toil? 
" For operas listen to a bird? 
 "Shall Sydney's fables be preferr'd
 "To my sagacious Hoyle? 

O falsly fond of what seems great,
 Of purple pomp and robes of state,
 And all life's tinsel glare! 
Rather with humble violets bind,
 Or give to wanton in the wind
 Your length of sable hair. 

Soon as you reach the rural shade,
 Will Mirth, the sprightly mountain maid,
 Your days and nights attend;
 She'll bring fantastic Sport and Song,
 Nor Cupid will be absent long,
 Your true ally and friend.