The profpect, fuch as might enchant despair,
He views it not, or fees no beauty there;
With aching heart and discontented looks,
Returns at noon, to billiards or to books,
But feels, while grasping at his faded joys,
A fecret thirst of his renounc'd employs.
He chides the tardiness of ev'ry post,
Pants to be told of battles won or loft,
Blames his own indolence, observes, though late, 'Tis criminal to leave a finking state,
Flies to the levee, and receiv'd with grace,
Kneels, kiffes hands, and shines again in place.
Suburban villas, highway-fide retreats,
That dread th' encroachment of our growing streets, Tight boxes, neatly fafh'd, and in a blaze
With all a July fun's collected rays,
Delight the citizen, who gafping there
Breathes clouds of duft and calls it country air.
Oh sweet retirement, who would baulk the thought,
That could afford retirement, or could not?
'Tis fuch an easy walk, so smooth and strait,
The fecond milestone fronts the garden gate,
A step if fair, and if a fhower approach,
You find fafe shelter in the next ftage-coach.
There prison'd in a parlour fnug and small,
Like bottled wafps upon a fouthern wall,
The man of bus'nefs and his friends comprefs'd,
Forget their labours, and yet find no reft;
But ftill 'tis rural-trees are to be feen
From ev'ry window, and the fields are green,
Ducks paddle in the pond before the door,
And what could a remoter fcene fhow more?
A sense of elegance we rarely find
The portion of a mean or vulgar mind,
And ignorance of better things, makes man
Who cannot much, rejoice in what he can;
And he that deems his leifure well beftow'd
In contemplation of a turnpike road,
Is occupied as well, employs his hours
As wifely, and as much improves his pow'rs,
As he that flumbers in pavillion's grac'd
With all the charms of an accomplish'd taste.
Yet hence, alas! Infolvencies, and hence
Th' unpitied victim of ill-judg'd expence,
From all his wearifome engagements freed,
Shakes hands with bufinefs, and retires indeed.
Your prudent grand mammas, ye modern belles,
Content with Bristol, Bath, and Tunbridge-wells,
When health requir'd it would confent to roam,
Elfe more attach'd to pleasures found at home.
But now alike, gay widow, virgin, wife,
Ingenious to diverfify dull life,
In coaches, chaifes, caravans and hoys,
Fly to the coaft for daily, nightly joys,
And all impatient of dry land, agree
With one confent to rush into the fea.-
Ocean exhibits, fathomless and broad,
Much of the power and majefty of God.
He swathes about the fwelling of the deep,
That shines and refts, as infants fmile and fleep;
Vaft as it is, it anfwers as it flows
The breathings of the lightest air that blows;
Curling and whit'ning over all the wafte,
The rifing waves obey th' increasing blast,
Abrupt and horrid as the tempeft roars,
Thunder and flash upon the stedfast shores,
'Till he that rides the whirlwind, checks the rein,
Then, all the world of waters fleeps again.-
Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads,
Now in the floods, now panting in the meads,
Vot'ries of pleasure ftill, where'er fhe dwells,
Near barren rocks, in palaces or cells.
Oh grant a poet leave to recommend,
(A poet
Her flighted works to your admiring view,
fond of nature, and your friend)
Her works must needs excel, who fashion'd you.
Would ye, when rambling in your morning ride,
With fome unmeaning coxcomb at your fide,
Condemn the prattler for his idle pains,
To wafte unheard the mufic of his ftrains,
And deaf to all the impertinence of tongue,
That while it courts, affronts and does you wrong.
Mark well the finish'd plan without a fault,
The feas globofe and huge, th' o'erarching vault,
Earth's millions daily fed, a world employ'd
In gath'ring plenty yet to be enjoy'd,
'Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise
Of God, beneficent in all his ways;
Grac'd with fuch wifdom how would beauty fhine? Ye want but that to feem indeed divine.
Anticipated rents and bills unpaid,
Force many a fhining youth into the fhade,
Not to redeem his time, but his eftate,
And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate.
There hid in loath'd obfcurity, remov'd
From pleasures left, but never more belov'd,
He just endures, and with a fickly spleen
Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming scene.
Nature indeed looks prettily in rhime,
Streams tinkle fweetly in poetic chime,
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