All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades
Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind;
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.
The man we celebrate must find a tomb,
And we that worship him ignoble graves.
Nothing is proof against the general curse
Of vanity, that seizes all below.

The only amaranthine flower on earth
Is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth.
But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question put
To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply.
And wherefore? will not God impart his light
To them that ask it ?-Freely-'tis his joy,
His glory, and his nature to impart.
But to the proud, uncandid, insincere,
Or negligent inquirer, not a spark.

What's that which brings contempt upon a book,
And him who writes it, though the style be neat,
The method clear, and argument exact?
That makes a minister in holy things

The joy of many and the dread of more,

His name a theme for praise and for reproach ?—
That, while it gives us worth in God's account,
Depreciates and undoes us in our own?

What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy,
That learning is too proud to gather up ;
But which the poor, and the despised of all,
Seek and obtain, and often find unsought?
Tell me and I will tell thee what is truth.

O friendly to the best pursuits of man,

Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace,
Domestic life in rural pleasure pass'd!

Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets;
Though many boast thy favours, and affect
To understand and choose thee for their own.
But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss,
E'en as his first progenitor, and quits,
Though placed in Paradise, (for earth has still
Some traces of her youthful beauty left,)
Substantial happiness for transient joy.
Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse
The growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest,
By every pleasing image they present,
Reflections such as meliorate the heart,
Compose the passions, and exalt the mind;
Scenes such as these 'tis his supreme delight
To fill with riot, and defile with blood.
Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes
We
persecute, annihilate the tribes

That draw the sportsman over hill and dale,
Fearless and rapt away from all his cares;
Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again,
Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye;
Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song,
Be quell'd in all our summer months' retreat;
How many self-deluded nymphs and swains,
Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves,
Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen,
And crowd the roads, impatient for the town!
They love the country, and none else, who seek
For their own sake its silence and its shade.

Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind

Cultured and capable of sober thought,

For all the savage din of the swift pack,
And clamours of the field?-Detested sport,
That owes its pleasures to another's pain;
That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks
Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued
With eloquence, that agonies inspire
Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs?
Vain tears, alas! and sighs that never find
A coresponding tone in jovial souls!

Well-one at least is safe. One shelter'd hare
Has never heard the sanguinary yell
Of cruel man, exulting in her woes.
Innocent partner of my peaceful home,
Whom ten long years' experience of my care
Has made at last familiar; she has lost
Much of her vigilant instinctive dread,
Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.
Yes-thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand
That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor
At evening, and at night retire secure
To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm'd;
For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged
All that is human in me to protect

Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love.
If I survive thee, I will dig thy grave;
And, when I place thee in it, sighing say
I knew at least one hare that had a friend.*
See the note at the end of this volume.

How various his employments whom the world Calls idle; and who justly in return

Esteems that busy world an idler too!

Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,
Delightful industry enjoy'd at home,

And Nature, in her cultivated trim
Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad—
Can he want occupation who has these?
Will he be idle who has much to enjoy?
Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease,
Not slothful, happy to deceive the time,
Not waste it, and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,

When He shall call his debtors to account,
From whom are all our blessings, business finds
E'en here: while sedulous I seek to improve,
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd,
The mind he gave me; driving it, though slack
Too oft, and much impeded in its work,
By causes not to be divulged in vain,
To its just point-the service of mankind.
He, that attends to his interior self,
That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind
That hungers, and supplies it; and who seeks
A social, not a dissipated life,

Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve
No unimportant, though a silent, task.

A life all turbulence and noise may seem
To him that leads it wise, and to be praised;
But wisdom is a pearl with most success

Sought in still water and beneath clear skies.
He that is ever occupied in storms,

Or dives not for it, or brings up instead,
Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize.

The morning finds the self-sequestered man Fresh for his task, intend what task he may. Whether inclement seasons recommend His warm but simple home, where he enjoys With her who shares his pleasures and his heart, Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph Which neatly she prepares; then to his book Well chosen, and not sullenly perused

In selfish silence, but imparted oft,

As aught occurs, that she may smile to hear,
Or turn to nourishment, digested well.

Or if the garden, with its many cares,

All well repaid, demand him, he attends

The welcome call, conscious how much the hand
Of lubbard Labour needs his watchful eye,
Oft loitering lazily, if not o'erseen,

Or misapplying his unskilful strength.
Nor does he govern only or direct,

But much performs himself. No works, indeed,
That ask robust, tough sinews, bred to toil,
Servile employ; but such as may amuse,
Not tire, demanding rather skill than force.
Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees,
That meet, no barren interval between,

With pleasure more than e'en their fruits afford; Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel.