OU, who the fweets of rural Life have
Defpife th' ungrateful hurry of the town;
'n Windsor groves your eafie hours employ,
And, undifturb'd, yourself and Mufe enjoy.
Thames liftens to thy ftrains, and filent flows,
And no rude wind through ruftling ofiers blows,
While all his wondring nymphs around thee throng,
To hear the Sirens warble in thy fong.
But I, who ne'er was blefs'd by Fortune's hand, Nor brighten'd plow-fhares in paternal land,
Long in the noifie town have been immur'd,
Refpir'd its smoke, and all its cares endur'd,
Where news and politicks divide mankind,
And schemes of ftate involve th' uneafie mind:
Faction embroils the world; and ev'ry Tongue
Is mov'd by flatt'ry, or with fcandal hung:
Friendship, for fylvan fhades, the palace flies,
Where all muft yield to int'reft's dearer ties;
Each rival Machiavel with envy burns,
And honefty forfakes them all by turns ;
While calumny upon each party's thrown,
Which both promote, and both alike difown.
Fatigu'd at last; a calm retreat I chose,
And footh'd my harafs'd mind with fweet repofe,
Where fields, and fhades, and the refreshing clime, 25
Inspire the sylvan fong, and prompt my rhime.
My muse shall rove through flow'ry meads and plains,
And deck with Rural Sports her native strains,
And the fame road ambitiously purfue,
Frequented by the Mantuan fwain, and you.
"Tis not that rural sports alone invite,
But all the grateful country breathes delight;
Here blooming health exerts her gentle reign,.
And strings the finews of th' industrious swain.
Soon as the morning lark falutes the day,
Through dewy fields I take my frequent way,
Where I behold the farmer's early care,
In the revolving labours of the year.
When the fresh spring in all her state is crown'd, And high luxuriant grafs o'erfpreads the ground, The lab'rer with the bending fcythe is feen, Shaving the furface of the waving green,
Of all her native pride difrobes the land,
And meads lays wafte before his sweeping hand:
While with the mounting fun the meadow glows, 45
The fading Herbage round he loosely throws;
But if fome fign portend a lasting show'r,
Th' experienc'd fwain forefees the coming hour,
His fun-burnt hands the scatt'ring fork forfake,
And ruddy damfels ply the faving rake,
In rifing hills the fragrant harveft grows,
And spreads along the field in equal rows.
Now when the height of Heav'n bright Phœbus gains, And level rays cleave wide the thirsty plains,
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