For the unfcented fictions of the loom.
Who fatisfied with only pencil'd fcenes,
Prefer to the performance of a God
Th' inferior wonders of an artift'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 fhall never fee,
Conveys a diftant country into mine,
And throws Italian light on English walls.
But imitative strokes can do no more
Than please the eye, fweet Nature ev'ry fenfe.
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 exclufively her own.
Beneath the open fky fhe fpreads the feaft;
'Tis free to all-'tis ev'ry day renew'd,
Who fcorns it, ftarves deservedly at home.
He does not fcorn it, who imprison'd long
In fome unwholesome dungeon, and a prey
To fallow fickness, which the vapours dank
And clammy of his dark abode have bred,
Escapes at last to liberty and light.
His cheek recovers foon its healthful hue,
His eye relumines its extinguish'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 scorn it, who has long endur'd
A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.
Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed
With acrid falts; his very heart athirst
To gaze at Nature in her green array.
Upon the fhip's tall fide he ftands, poffefs'd
With vifions prompted by intense desire;
Fair fields appear below, fuch as he left
Far diftant, fuch as he would die to find-
He feeks them headlong, and is seen no more.
The spleen 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 immeasurable woe appears,
These Flora banishes, and gives the fair
Sweet fmiles and bloom lefs tranfient than her
It is the conftant revolution ftale
And taftelefs, of the fame repeated joys,
That palls and fatiates, and makes languid life
A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down.
Health fuffers, and the fpirits ebb; the heart
Recoils from its own choice-at the full feast
Is famith'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 fhuffle, to divide and fort
Her mingled fuits and sequences, and fits
Spectatress both and spectacle, 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 stout bearers lift the corpse again :
These speak a loud memento. Yet ev❜n these
Themselves 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
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 honour has been
The boast 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 overfhoot his humble neft.
The peafant too, a witness of his fong,
Himself a fongfter, 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 ftripp'd off by cruel chance;
From gaiety that fills the bones with pain,
The mouth with blafphemy, the heart with woe.
The earth was made fo various, that the mind
Of defultory man, ftudious of change,
And pleas'd with novelty, might be indulged.
Profpects however lovely may be feen
'Till half their beauties fade; the weary fight,
Too well acquainted with their smiles, flides off
Faftidious, feeking lefs familiar scenes.
Then fnug inclofures in the fhelter'd vale,
Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,
Delight us, happy to renounce awhile,
Not fenfeless of its charms, what ftill we love,
That fuch fhort absence may endear it more.
Then forefts, or the favage rock may please,
That hides the fea-mew in his hollow clefts
Above the reach of man: his hoary head,
Confpicuous many a league, the mariner
Bound homeward, and in hope already there,
Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist
A girdle of half-wither'd fhrubs he fhows,
And at his feet the baffled billows die.
The common overgrown with fern, and rough
With prickly gorfe, that fhapelefs and deform'd
And dang❜rous to the touch, has yet its bloom,
And decks itself with ornaments of gold,
Yields no unpleafing ramble; there the turf
Smells fresh, and rich in odorif'rous herbs
And fungous fruits of earth, regales the fenfe
With luxury of unexpected fweets.
There often wanders one, whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak of fattin trimm'd
With lace, and hat with fplendid ribband bound.
A ferving maid was fhe, and fell in love
With one who left her, went to sea and died.
Her fancy followed him through foaming waves.
To diftant fhores, and fhe would fit and weep
At what a failor fuffers; fancy too
Delufive moft where warmeft wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know.
She heard the doleful tidings of his death,
And never smil❜d again. And now the roams
The dreary wafte; there spends the livelong day,
And there, unless when charity forbids,
The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides a gown
More tatter'd ftill; and both but ill conceal
A bofom heaved with never-ceafing fighs.
|