who the sweets of rural life have known,
Defpife th' ungrateful hurry of the town ;
In Windfor groves your eafy hours employ,
And, undisturb'd, yourself and Mufe enjoy.
Thames liftens to thy ftrains, and filent flows,
And no rude wind through rustling offers blows;
While all his wondering nymphs around thee throng,
To hear the Syrens warble in thy fong.
This poem received many material corrections from
the Author after it was firft published.
But I, who ne'er was blefs'd by Fortune's hand,
Nor brighten'd plough-fhares in paternal land,
Long in the noify town have been immur'd,
Refpir'd its fmoke, and all its cares endur'd;
Where news and politics divide mankind,
And schemes of ftate involve th' uneafy mind;
Faction embroils the world; and every tongue
Is mov'd by flattery, or with fcandal hung:
Friendship, for fylvan fhades, the palace flies,
Where all muft yield to Intereft'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 disown.
Fatigued at laft; a calm retreat I chose,
And footh'd my harrass'd mind with fweet repose,
Where fields, and shades, and the refreshing clime, 25
Inspire the fylvan fong, and prompt my rhyme.
My Muse shall rove through flowery meads and plains,
And deck with Rural Sports her native strains,
And the fame road ambitiously pursue,
Frequented by the Mantuan Swain and You.
'Tis not that rural sports alone invite,
But all the grateful country breathes delight;
Here blooming Health exerts her gentle reign,
And ftrings the finews of th' industrious fwain.
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 ftate is crown'd,
And high luxuriant grafs o'erfpreads the ground,
The labourer with a bending scythe is feen,
Shaving the furface of the waving green;
Of all her native pride difrobes the land,
And meads lays wafte before his fweeping hand;
While with the mounting fun the meadow glows,
The fading herbage round he loosely throws:
But, if fome fign portend a lasting shower,
Th' experienc'd swain foresees the coming hour;
His fun-burnt hands the scattering fork forfake,
And ruddy damfels ply the faving rake;
In rifing hills the fragrant harvest grows,
And spreads along the field in equal rows.
Now when the height of heaven bright Phoebus gains, And level rays cleave wide the thirsty plains, When heifers feek the fhade and cooling lake, And in the middle path-way basks the snake; O lead me, guard me from the fultry hours, Hide me, ye forests, in your closest bowers, Where the tall oak his spreading arms entwines, And with the beech a mutual fhade combines ; Where flows the murmuring brook, inviting dreams, Where bordering hazle overhangs the ftreams, Whofe rolling current, winding round and round, With frequent falls makes all the wood refound; Upon the moffy couch my limbs I cast, And e'en at noon the fweets of evening taste.
Here I peruse the Mantuan's Georgic strains,
And learn the labours of Italian fwains;
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