There sit his table frequent guests around,
The justice with solemnity of face,
Who talks of statutes pass'd and law profound, The scourge and terror of the thievish race, And hapless wanton mark'd with foul disgrace. The apothecary fond to make them stare, While he in learned words explains each case Of skilful cures and of distempers rare,
And shows, how e'en in spite of physic, death will spare.
The squire, who only talks of horse or hound,
Or lofty hedge o'erleap'd or five-barr'd gate;
His mind in kennel or in stable found,
All other converse meets his perfect hate.
Books he detests and every grave debate;
By income 'bove his huntsman raised alone;
Boasts of his steed and of his large estate;
Laughs at dull jokes, but loudest at his own,
While by the frequent oath the vacant mind is
known.
Such scenes the unaspiring mind delight,
And smoothly on his hours in quiet glide;
Whist or backgammon share the winter's night;
His busy days important cares divide:
To till his field, or take a sober ride,
To talk of raising tithes, or save his hay,
To reap his corn, or absent church-folk chide;
Copy, perchance, a sermon, sometimes pray,
His dues exact collect, his fruitful glebe survey.
Far happier he than drone in college hive,
On books who pores his sullen hopeless years;
Beloved by none, and buried yet alive,
Whom no sweet charity to life endears;
But ever wrangling with his proud compeers;
Friendship unknown, and every genial joy,
No lovely wife his lonely sorrows cheers,
With drear insipid round his pleasures cloy,
Who learning treasures which he cannot e'er
employ.
Such is our favour'd parson's easy life,
From cumbrous pomp, from guilty greatness free,
From false ambition, and from constant strife.
And bless'd, if there be happiness, is he
Who weighs in wisdom's scale felicity:
In wishes circumscribed will ever find
Of human bliss the total sum to be.
Care is to him alone a passing wind,
Who by this golden rule can regulate his mind.
SWEET poplar shade, whose trembling leaves
The cheereful birds delight to chaunt their laies;
Where oft the linnet powres the dulcet song,
And oft the thrilling thrush descanting plaies;
Their tunes attempring to the silver Yare,
Which gently murmurs here
A babbling brook; but swelling in his pride
Sees two famed towns upon his banks appear,
And the tall ships on his fair bosom ride;
Indignant then rolls his prowde waves away,
And fomes o'er half the sea:
Sweet stream, with shade refresht, orehung with
Entrailed with the honied woodbine faire;
Where breathes the gentlest, softest, simplest aire
Stealing fresh odors from the rising flowres,
Joy of my calmer howres,
Oh soothe me with thy whisperings whiles I sing,
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
With pleasance oft two silver swannes I view Pranking their silver plumes with conscious pride, A comely couplement of goodly hew,
Come softly swimming down the crystal tide;
The crystal tide, resplendent as it may,
Looks not so faire as they,
Whether their snowie necks they love to lave,
Or pluck with jetty bill in wanton play
The yellow flowres that flote upon the wave;
Or 'sdeigne to tinge their plumage, lest they might
Soyle their pure beauties bright;
But with slow pomp on the clear surface move.
Ye sweet birds, whiter than the new faln snow
That silvers ore Thessalian Pindus' brow;
Fairer than those that draw the queen of love;
Purer than Leda's Jove;
Tune your melodious voices whiles I sing,
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
Oft when the modest morn in purple drest,
Waked by the lively larke's love-learned laye,
Unbars the golden light gate of the east,
And as a bridemaid leads the blushing daye;
The sunne's bright harbinger before her goes
Scattering violet, scattering rose;
The jolly sunne, uprist with lusty pride,
Shakes his faire amber locks, and round him throws
His glitterand beams to wellcome up his bride; Then bids his liveried clouds before him flie, And daunces up the skie.
Sweet is the breath of heaven with dayspring born;
Sweet are the flowres that ore the damaskt meads
To the new sunne unfold their velvet heads;
Sweet is the dewe, the spangled child of morn,
That does the leaves adorn;
Sweet is the matin hymne the glad birds sing;
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
With early step yon verdant slope I tread,
Crown'd with the florisht bowre of cremosin health,
Whence auntient Norwich rears her towred head;
Norwich, faire nurse of industry and wealth:
Down in the dale my lowly hamlet lies,
Where Truth without disguise,
Where dovelike Peace, and virgin Virtue where:
Hence Bacon's villa greets my pleasured eyes,
Bacon, to Phoebus and the Muses deare,
Seeking, uncombred with the toyles of state,
The grove-embosomed seate,
The tufted hill, the valley flowre-bedight,
The silver shinings of my winding Yare,
The corn green-springing, and the fallows seare,
The lambkins sporting round, rural delight,
From hence enchaunt the sight,
And wake the shrilling pipe, and tempt to sing,
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
Öft when the eve demure with dewy eye,
Clad in a lengthned stole of raven-gray,
Assumes the sober empire of the skye,
The streakt west glimmering to the parting day;
When golden Hesperus forth-streaming bright,
The leader of the night,
Marshals his radiant troops, and gives command
In heaven's hie arch their lovely lamps to light;
Shouting he walks the Gideon of the band:
When first the youthfull moon begins to show
New-bent her blessed bow;
Or when, uprising from her eastern bowre,
Full orb'd she strives her glowing face to shroud,
Gorgeously mantled in a lucid cloud;
Or all her beaming brightness deignes to powre
The silver'd landskip ore;
And shepherd swains their evening carrols sing, The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring. Ore the new-shaven level green I rove, Where the fresh haycock breathes along the mead; Or wander through the' uncertain-shaded grove, Or the trim margent of the river tread ;
Where the soft whisperings of the poplars tall, To the streames liquid fall
Attempred sweet, the musefull mind delight. Where the lone partridge to her mate does call, Responsive in his homeward-hasting flight: Where the low quail with modulation bland Runnes piping o'er the land:
Where, as I stray along the dew-sprent ground,
The farre-off clock just trembles to my ear;
Where the mad citties lowder mirth I hear,
When swinging in full peal, a festive sound,
The deep bells roar around:
In mute attention hush'd I cease to sing,
Nor hills, nor dales, nor woods, nor fountaines ring.
Now night's pale fires a peacefull influence shed,
The flockes forget to bleat, the herds to low,
Looselie along the grassy green dispred :
The slumbring trees seem their tall tops to bow,
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