Oн knew he but his happiness, of men
The happiest he who far from public rage,
Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired,
Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life!
What though the dome be wanting, whose proud
gate,
Fach morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd
Of flatterers false, and in their turn abused?
Vile intercourse! What though the glittering robe,
Of every hue reflected light can give,
Or floating loose, or stiff with mazy gold,
T'he pride and gaze of fools, oppress him not?
What though, from utmost land and sea purveyed
For him each rarer tributary life
Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps
With luxury and death? What though his bowl
Flames not with costly juice, nor sunk in beds,
Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night,
Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state?
What though he knows not those fantastic joys
T'hat still amuse the wanton, still deceive-
A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain-
Their hallow moments undelighted all ?
Sure peace is his; a solid life, estranged
To disappointment and fallacious hope:
Rich in content, in Nature's bounty rich,
In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the Spring
When heaven descends in showers, or bends the
bough
When summer reddens, and when Autumn beams,
Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies
Concealed, and fattens with the richest gap;
These are not wanting; nor the milky drove,
Luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowing vale ;
Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams,
And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere
Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade,
Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay;
Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song,
Dim grottoes, gleaming lakes, and fountain clear.
Here too dwells simple Truth; plain Innocence;
Unsullied Beauty; sound unbroken Youth,
Patient of labour, with a little pleased;
Health ever blooming; unambitious Toil;
Calm contemplation, and poetic Ease.
He fairly looking into life's account;
Saw frowns and favours were of like amount;
And viewing all-his perils, prospects, purse,
He said, "content-'tis well it is no worse."
Now my co-mates, and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference; as, the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,-
This is no flattery; these are counsellors
'That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity,-
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
He that commends me to mine own content, Commends me to the thing I cannot get. Sheakespear.
ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT.
Low was our pretty cot! our tallest rose Peeped at the chamber-window. We could hear A silent noon, and eve, and early morn, The sea's faint murmur. In the open air Our mrytles blossomed; and across the porch Thick jasmins twined: the little landscape round Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye. It was a spot, which you might aptly call The Valley of Seclusion! Once I saw (Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calmed His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse With wiser feelings: for he paused, and looked With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around, Then eyed our cottage, and gazed round again, And sighed, and said, it was a blessed place. And we were blessed. Oft with patient ear Long listening to the viewless sky-lark's note (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen Gleaming on sunny wing,) "And such," I said, "The inobtrusive song of happiness
Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard
When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hushed
And the heart listens!"
But the time, when firs
From that low dell steep up the stony mount
I climbed with perilous toil and reached the top,
O what a goodly scene! here the bleak mount,
The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep;
Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields
And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrowed,
Now winding bright and full, with naked banks;'
And seats, and lawns, the abbey, and the wood,
And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire:
The channel there, the islands and white sails,
Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless
It seemed like Omnipresence! God, methought,
Had built him there a temple: the whole world
Seemed imaged in its vast circumference.
No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart.
Blest hour! it was a luxury-to be!
Ah, quiet dell! dear cot! and mount sublime, I was constrained to quit you. Was it right, While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled, That I should dream away the entrusted hours On rose-leaf beds, pamp'ring the coward heart With feelings all too delicate for use?
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth: And he, that works me good with unmoved face,
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