To the eye of native taste,
To the uncorrupted breast,
Shines fo bright the diamond's blaze,
The mafquerade, or mingled rays
Which a thousand flambeaux pour
O'er the health-destroying hour;
As the rufticks chearful dance,
When Hefper bids the stars advance :
The blithfome frolicks of the green,
Where Love and Innocence are seen;
Where Beauty fhines without difguife,
And heart-felt paffions light the eyes?
To me the fhepherd's artless tale;
His fighs, that mingle with the gale;
His anxious cares, his joys, his fears;
His jealous doubts, and tender tears;
The natural terms that paint his love;
The verdant fcenery of the grove:
Are far more pleasing than the stage,
Tho' Shakespeare wrote th' impaffion'd page;
And Garrick ftill, with tragick art,
Could point each word to touch the heart!
O tafte corrupt! eftrang'd to bliss,
To fmiling Peace, and Happinefs;
Perish your hated, baneful fway!
And hafte, O hafte! propitious day,
When, Nature, thou who charm'st the wise,
Shalt with exalted honour rife!
Smit with thy love, O let me trace
Those feats where thou in awful grace,
Or mildest beauty, reign'ft alone,
And guilty Art is yet unknown:
Direct me, Nature, to thy fhore,
For never mortal lov'd thee more!
Dwell'st thou on Andes rocky brow;
Or midst th' untrodden flow'rs that grow
Where the fea-like Plata ftrays,
And works it's wild meand'rous ways?
Sitt'ft thou amid eternal froft,
On Iceland's folitary coaft?
Or on the Alpine mountains hoar,
Hear'ft thou of driving ftorms the roar?
Midft flaming Etna's heaving mine,
Do'st thou delight in awe to shine;
Or lov'ft fome fea-befprinkled ifle,
Where human feet ne'er ftamp'd the foil?
Yes! there thou dwell'ft; nor there alone
I fee thy venerable throne:
Where'er I turn my eyes around,
Thy fair profufion cloathes the ground;
In ev'ry lawn, and opening glade,
Thy fmiling honours are difplay'd;
And Whichwood's deep, embowering glooms,
With all thy fapphire colours blooms.
Whichwood! how dear thy blefs'd retreats!
Thy moffy banks, and rural feats!
Thy waving groves, thy hamlets mean,
Where Poverty with brow ferene,
Where Innocence and Peace refide,
And down life's current gently glide!
Thrice happy they, who here retir'd,
With envy nor ambition fir'd;
Content thofe cravings to fupply,
That Nature views with wifhing eye;
Enjoy thy pure falubrious air,
And fee thy profpects wide and fair;
The fragrance of thy flowers inhale,
And feel Hygeia in each gale.
With rapture beating at my breast,
Each vexing paffion lull'd to reft,
Oft let me thrid thy tangled brakes,
Soon as the dawning day awakes;
Traverse thy velvet-mantled lawns,
Where graze thy flocks, and sport thy fawns;
Afcend thy flopes, and pierce thy groves,
To liften to their warblers loves;
Or to thy limpid rills retire,
And cool the fun's meridian fire:
Then reft fupine, where branching trees
Exclude the unremitting breeze:
Or oft with transport turn an eye
On the scenes that round me lie;
Mark yon river's mazy bed,
Where many a willow rears it's head;
Catch the village echo far;
See numerous fpires afcend in air,
With fhining domes in trees embrac❜d,
And Nature mix'd with genuine Taste
All the varied landscape view,
Till the high hills are loft in blue.
There let me tune the vocal lyre,
And, Nature, thou my voice infpire!
Here meditate the lyrick ftrains,
That Warton pipes on Ifis' plains;
Admire each foul-enchanting line,
And catch fome grace to call it mine.
From Hawkins' Mufe attempt to please
With native, unaffected ease;
Learn all defcription's force from Pye,
And with his ftrains immortal vie:
From lovely Craven's comick vein,
Of human nature knowledge gain;
Whofe attick wit, and genius bright,
O'er gloomy Care can throw delight;
Who paints the fcene that Nature shows,
Nor fuffers Art to interpofe!
Thus thro' life's vale O let me stray,
In mild Contentment's placid way;
Nor court the favour of the great;
Nor spend a figh for wealth or ftate;
Nor wish in Fame's broad roll to shine;
But be the focial pleasures mine.
All the joys O let me prove,
That fpring from Conftancy and Love;
From Heaven receive the friend fincere,
To tafte my blifs, or foothe my care:
And fince pure Nature's wants are few,
Let me her fimple plan purfue;
To Virtue's love refign my heart,
And never know delufive Art.
Sanctius his animal, mentifque capacius altæ.
SCEND, my foul, and elevate thy thought,
Α As To view they wonders by thy Maker wrought;
To view the wonders by thy Maker wrought;
To yon bright arch, thy dazzled eyes erect,
And in the work confefs the Architect:
Then, looking down, contracted in a fpan,
Behold another univerfe in man.
Duft is his origin, and earth his place:
But on the mother's fide, though man be base,
Sprung from the facred fire, to Heaven allied,
The confcious foul maintains her noble pride:
Nor is it pride; what gratitude were due,
Unless the value of the gift she knew?
No more, O man! thy faculties difgrace;
Nor feek to herd among the reptile race:
Nor through the boundless fields of æther roam,
Loft in thy fearch-begin thy fearch at home.
Think on thy firft forefather, when he lay
-Inanimate upon his native clay:
The beauteous fymmetry, though not infpir'd
With vital breath, was then to be admir'd.
When art but imitates, in Parian stone,
The fwelling muscles, and the jointed bone;
The fteady thighs, the ribs with easy sweep,
Which all erect the ftately pofture keep;
The fupple knee, the ancles firm to ftand,
The bending fingers, and the grafping hand;
The neck, with gentle negligence inclin'd,
The lively features that exprefs the mind:
When thus, though from the marble hard and rude,
With yielding flesh the figure feems endu'd,
How can it's air to veneration move,
Or the cold ivory warm the carver's love?
What this external mold contains within,
Unfeen, unknown, to actuate the machine;
Or why the whole, or why the parts were made,
Each for itself, and each for mutual aid,
Remains to afk. See! from the ground he fprings!
has given the groveling creature wings?
See! how to Heaven he cafts his opening eyes;
New to the scene of wonders he defcries:
Then runs, and leaps, perceives, and understands,
And lifts with fudden extafy his hands;
6 Say, whence am I? and whence thefe objects all,
That strike my fenfe?' He calls, or feems to call.
What is that fenfe? how downward from the brain,
The subtle nerves deduce their artful chain,
And what æthereal juice their tubes contain:
What to the ear impulfive air conveys,
What in the eye collects the visual rays,
Let Reason trace; in all their mazes loft,
The smallest work commends the Artift moft.
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