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Why else the smiling infant-train so bleft,
Ere dear-bought knowledge ends the peace within,
Or wild defire inflames the youthful breast,
Or ill propension ripens into fin?
As to the bleațing tenants of the field,
As to the sportive warblers on the trees,
To them their joys sincere the seasons yield,
And all their days and all their prospects please;
Such joys were mine when from the peopled streets,
Where on THAMESIS' banks I liv’d-immur'd,
The new-blown fields that breath'd a thousand sweets,
TO SURRY's wood-crown'd hills my steps allur'd:
O happy hours, beyond recov'ry fled !
What share I now
66 that can your
repay," Whileo'er my mind these glooms of thoughtare spread, And veil the light of life's meridian ray?
Is there no power this darkness to remove ?
The long-lost joys of Eden to restore ?
Or raise our views to happier seats above,
Where fear and pain and death shall be no more?
Yes, those there are who know a SAVIOUR's love
The long-lost joys of Eden can restore,
And raise their views to happier seats above,
Where fear and pain and death shall be no more:
Those grateful share the gift of nature's hand;
And in the varied scenes that round them shine,
(The fair, the rich, the awful, and the grand)
Admire th' amazing workmanship divine.
Blows not a flow'ret in th' enamell’d vale,
Shines not a pebble where the riv'let strays,
Sports not an insect on the spicy gale,
But claims their wonder and excites their praise,
For thein ev'n vernal nature looks more gay,
For them more lively hues the fields adorn;
To them more fair the faireft smile of day,
To them more sweet the sweetest breath of morn.
They feel the bliss that hope and faith supply;
They pass serene th’appointed hours that bring
The day that wafts them to the realms on high,
The day that centers in eternal spring.
N diff'rent seafons diff'rent joys we place,
And these shall spring supply, and fummer these; Yet frequent storms the bloom of spring deface, And summer scarcely brings a day to please.
THE fun far fouthward bends his annual way,
The bleak north-east wind lays the forests bare, The fruit ungather'd quits the naked spray, And dreary winter reigns o’er earth and air,
No mark of vegetable life is seen,
No bird to bird repeats his tuneful call;
Save the dark leaves of some rude evergreen,
Save the lone red-breast on the moss-grown wall.
Where are the sprightly scenes by spring supply'd, The May-flower'd hedges scenţing every breeze; The white flocks scatt'ring o'er the mountain fide, The woodlarks warbling on the blooming trees?
Where is gay summer's sportive insect train,
That in green fields on painted pinions play'd ?
The herd at morn wide-pasturing o'er the plain,
Or throng'd at noon-tide in the willow shade?
Where is brown autumn's ev'ning mild and still,
What time the ripen'd corn fresh fragrance yields,
What time the village peoples all the hill,
And loud fhouts echo o'er the harvest fields?
To former scenes our fancy thus returns,
To former scenes that little pleas'd when here !
Our winter chills us and our summer burns,
Yet we diflike the changes of the year.
To happier lands then restless fancy flies,
Where INDIAN streams thro' green Savannahs flow;
Where brighter suns and ever-tranquil skies
Bid new fruits ripen and new flow'rets blow.
Let truth these fairer happier lands survey,
There half the year descends in wat'ry storms;
Or nature fickens in the blaze of day,
And one brown hue the sun-burnt plain deforms,
There oft as toiling in the maizey fields,
Or homeward passing on the shadeless way,
His joyless life the weary lab’rer yields,
And instant drops beneath the deathful ray.
Who dreams of nature free from nature's strife?
Who dreams of constant happiness below?
The hope-flush'd ent’rer on the stage of life;
The youth to knowledge unchastisd by woe.
For me, long toil'd on many a weary road,
Led by false hope in search of many a joy ;
I find in earth's bleak clime no blest abode,
No place, no season sacred from annoy:
For me, while winter rages round the plains,
With his dark days I'll human life compare;
Not those more fraughtwith clouds and winds and rains,
Than this with pining pain and anxious care.
O whence this wond'rous turn of mind our fate!
Whate'er the season or the place pofseft,
We ever murmur at our present state;
yet the thought of parting breaks our reft:
Why else, when heard in ev’ning's solemn gloom,
Does the sad knell that sounding o'er the plain,
Tolls fome poor lifeless body to the tomb,
Thus thrill my breast with melancholy pain?
The voice of reason echoes in my ear,
Thus thou ere long must join thy kindred clay;
No more these “ nostrils breathe the vital air,”
No more these eyelids open on the day.
O winter, round me spread thy joyless reign,
Thy threat'ning skies in dusky horrors drest;
Of thy dread rage no longer I'll complain,
Nor alk' an eden for'a transient guest.
Enough has heaven indulg'd of joy below,
To tempt our tarriance in this lov'd retreat;
Enough has heaven ordain'd of useful woe,
To make us languish for a happier feat.