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With all our art and toil improv'd to pain! Say how, unseason'd to the midnight frays
The brows of care, indulge your festive vein
There are sweet follies ; frailties to be seen Such the rude mountain from his horrid sides By friends alone, and men of generous minds. Pours down ; such waters in the sandy vale
Oh! seldom may the fated hours return For ever boil, alike of winter frosts
Of drinking deep! I would not daily taste, And summer's heat secure. The crystal stream, Except when life declines, even sober cups. Through rocks resounding, or for many a mile (pure, Weak withering age no rigid law forbids, O'er the chaf 'd pebbles hurl’d, yields wholesome, With frugal nectar, smooth and slow with balm, And mellow draughts; except when winter thaws, The sapless habit daily to bedew, And half the mountains melt into the tide.
And give the hesitating wheels of life Though thirst were e'er so resolute, avoid
Gliblier to play. But youth has better joys: The sordid lake, and all such drowsy floods And is it wise when youth with pleasure flows, As fill from Lethe Belgia's slow canals ;
To squander the reliefs of age and pain? (With rest corrupt, with vegetation green;
What dextrous thousands just within the goal Squalid with generation, and the birth
Of wild debauch direct their nightly course! of little monsters ;) till the power of fire
Perhaps no sickly qualms bedim their days, Has from profane embraces disengag'd
No morning admonitions shock the head. The violated lymph. The virgin stream
But, ah! what woes remain ! life rolls apace, In boiling wastes its finer soul in air.
And that incurable disease, old age, Nothing like simple element dilutes
In youthful bodies more severely felt, The food, or gives the chyle so soon to flow. More sternly active, shakes their blasted prime; But where the stomach, indolent and cold, Except kind Nature by some hasty blow Toys with its duty, animate with wine
Prevent the lingering fates. For know, whate'er Th' insipid stream: though golden Ceres yields Beyond its natural fervour hurries on A more voluptuous, a more sprightly draught; The sanguine tide; whether the frequent bowl, Perhaps more active. Wine unmix'd, and all High-season'd fare, or exercise to toil The gluey floods that from the vex'd abyss Protracted; spurs to its last stage tired life, Of fermentation spring; with spirit fraught, And sows the temples with untimely snow, And furious with intoxicating fire ;
When life is new the ductile fibres feel Retard concoction, and preserve unthaw'd
The heart's increasing force ; and, day by day, Th' embodied mass. You see what countless years, The growth advances : 'till the larger tubes Embalm'd in fiery quintessence of wine,
Acquiring (from their elemental veins * The puny wonders of the reptile world,
Condens'd to solid chords) a firmer tone, The tender rudiments of life, the slim
Sustain, and just sustain, th' impetuous blood. Unravellings of minute anatomy,
Here stops the growth. With overbearing pulse Maintain their texture, and unchang'd remain. And pressure, still the great destroy the small;
We curse not wine: the vile excess we blame; Still with the ruins of the small grow strong.
Life glows meantime, amid the grinding force
Its various functions vigorously are plied
The man confirm'd long triumphs o'er disease. The far remote meanders of our frame.
But the full ocean ebbs: there is a point, Ah! sly deceiver ! branded o'er and o’er,
By Nature fix'd, when life must downward tend. Yet still believ'd! exulting o'er the wreck
For still the beating tide consolidates Of sober vows ! - But the Parnassian maids The stubborn vessels, more reluctant still Another time, perhaps, shall sing the joyst, To the weak throbs of th’ill supported heart. The fatal charms, the many woes of wine ; This languishing, these strength’ning by degrees Perhaps its various tribes and various powers.
Meantime, I would not always dread the bowl, * In the human body, as well as in those of other Nor every trespass shun. The feverish strife, animals, the larger blood vessels are composed of Rous'd by the rare debauch, subdues, expels smaller ones; which, by the violent motion and The loitering crudities that burden life ;
pressure of the fluids in the large vessels, lose their And, like a torrent full and rapid, clears
cavities by degrees, and degenerate into impervious Th'obstructed tubes. Besides, this restless world chords or fibres. In proportion as these small vesIs full of chances, which, by habit's power, sels become solid, the larger must of course become To learn to bear is easier than to shun.
less extensile, more rigid, and make a stronger reAh! when ambition, meagre love of gold, sistance to the action of the heart, and force of the Or sacred country calls, with mellowing wine
blood. From this gradual condensation of the To moisten well the thirsty suffrages;
smaller vessels, and consequent rigidity of the larger
ones, the progress of the human body from infancy * Hippocrates.
+ Sec Book IV. lo old age is accounted for.
To hard unyielding unelastic bone,
Such the reward of rude and sober life; Through tedious channels the congealing flood Of labour such. By health the peasant's toil Crawls lazily, and hardly wanders on ;
Is well repaid; if exercise were pain It loiters still ; and now it stirs no more.
Indeed, and temperance pain. By arts like these This is the period few attain; the death
Laconia nursid of old her hardy sons ; Of Nature; thus (so Heav'n ordain'd it) life And Rome's unconquer'd legions urg'd their way Destroys itself; and could these laws have chang'd, Unhurt, through every toil in every clime. Nestor might now the fates of Troy relate ;
Toil, and be strong. By toil the flaccid nerves And Homer live immortal as his song.
Grow firm, and gain a more compacted tone; What does not fade ? the tower that long had stood The greener juices are by toil subdu'd, The crush of thunder and the warring winds, Mellow'd and subtiliz'd; the vapid old Shook by the slow, but sure destroyer, Time, Expell’d, and all the rancour of the blood. Now hangs in doubtful ruins o'er its base.
Come, my companions, ye who feel the charins And Hinty pyramids, and walls of brass,
Of Nature and the year; come, let us stray Descend: the Babylonian spires are sunk;
Where chance or fancy leads our roving walk: Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down.
Come, while the soft voluptuous breezes fan Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones,
The fleecy Heavens, enwrap the limbs in balm, And tottering empires crush by their own weight. And shed a charining languor o'er the soul. This huge rotundity we tread grows old ;
Nor when bright Winter sows with prickly frost And all those worlds that roll around the Sun, The vigorous ether, in unmanly warmth The Sun himself, shall die ; and ancient Night Indulge at home ; nor even when Eurus' blasts Again involve the desolate abyss :
This way and that convolve the lab'ring woods 'Till the great Father through the lifeless gloom My liberal walks, save when the skies in rain Extend his arm to light another world,
Or fogs relent, no season should confine And bid new planets roll by other laws.
Or to the cloister'd gallery or arcade. For through the regions of unbounded space, Go, climb the mountain; from th' ethereal source Where unconfin's Omnipotence has room,
Imbibe the recent gale. The cheerful morn Being, in various systems, fluctuates still
Beams o'er the hills; go, mount th' exulting steed Between creation and abhorr'd decay :
Already, see, the deep-mouth'd beagles catch It ever did, perhaps, and ever will.
The tainted mazes; and, on eager sport
Each doubtful trace. Or, if a nobler pres
And through its deepest solitudes awake
The vocal forest with the jovial horn.
But if the breathless chase o'er hill and dale EXERCISE.
Exceed your strength, a sport of less fatigue,
Not less delightful, the prolific stream Through various toils th' adventurous Muse has Affords. The crystal rivulet, that o'er past;
A stony channel rolls its rapid maze, (bounds But half the toil, and more than half, remains. Swarms with the silver fry. Such, through the Rude is her theme, and hardly fit for song; Of pastoral Stafford, runs the brawling Trent; Plain, and of little ornament; and I
Such Eden, sprung from Cumbrian mountains; such But little practis'd in th' Aonian arts.
The Esk, o'erhung with woods; and such the Yet not in vain such labours have we tried.
stream If aught these lays the fickle liealth contirm. On whose Arcadian banks I first drew air, To you, ye delicate, I write; for you
Liddel ; till now, except in Doric lays I tame my youth to philosophic cares,
Tun'd to her murmurs by her love-sick swains, And grow still paler by the midnight lamps. Unknown in song; though not a purer strean. Not to debilitate with timorous rules
Through meads more flowery, more romantic groves, A hardy frame; nor needlessly to brave
Rolls toward the western main. Hail, sacred tiood! Inglorious dangers, proud of mortal strength, May still thy hospitable swains be blest Is all the lesson that in wholesome years
In rural innocence; thy mountains still Concerns the strong. His care were ill bestow'd Teem with the fleecy race; thy tuneful woods Who would with warm effeminacy nurse
For ever flourish ; and thy vales look gay The thriving oak which on the mountain's brow With painted meadows, and the golden grain! Bears all the blasts that sweep the wintry Heaven. Oft, with thy blooming sons, when life was new,
Behold the labourer of the glebe, who toils Sportive and petulant, and charm'd with toys In dust, in rain, in cold and sultry skies !
In thy transparent eddies have I lar'd:
The eager trout, and with the slender line
The struggling panting prey: while vernal clouds When rabid Sirius fires th' autumnal noon.
And tepid gales obscur'd the ruffled pool, His habit pure with plain and temperate meals, And from the deeps callid forth the wanton swarms Robust with labour, and by custom steel'd
Form'd on the Samian school, or those of Ind, To every casualty of varied life;
There are who think these pastimes scarce humane. Serene he bears the peevish eastern blast,
Yet in my mind (and not relentless I) And uninfected breathes the mortal south.
His life is pure that wears no fouler stains,
But weaker parts
But if through genuine tenderness of heart, His vacant fancy most: the toil you hate
Fatigues you soon, and scarce improves your lin.bs. You shun the glories of the chase, nor care
As beauty still has blemish, and the mind
Few bodies are there of that happy mould
But some one part is weaker than the rest : Or came its savage genius to the grace
The legs, perhaps, or arms refuse their load, Of careless sweet rusticity, that seems
Or the chest labours. These assiduously, The amiable result of happy chance,
But gently, in their proper arts employ'd,
Acquire a vigour and springy activity,
Abhor fatigue and violent discipline. To plant the grove, or turn the barren mould. Begin with gentle toils; and as your nerves O trappy he! whom, when his years decline, Grow firm, to hardier by just steps aspire ; (His fortune and his fame by worthy means The prudent, even in every moderate walk, Attain'd, and equal to his moderate mind; At first but saunter, and by slow degrees His life approv'd by all the wise and good,
Increase their pace.
This doctrine of the wise Even envied by the vain,) the peaceful groves Well knows the master of the Aying steed. Of Epicurus, from this stormy world,
First from the goal the manag'd coursers play Receive to rest ; of all ungrateful cares
On bended reins; as yet the skilful youth Absolv'd, and sacred from the selfish crowd. Repress their foamy pride; but every breath Happiest of men ! if the same soil invites
The race grows warmer, and the tempest swells, A chosen few, companions of his youth,
Till all the fiery mettle has its way,
When all at once from indolence to toil
Are tir'd and crack'd, before their unctuous coats, Or jealousy, or pain to be outdone.
Compress’d, can pour the lubricating balm. Who plans th' enchanted garden, who directs Besides, collected in the passive veins, The vista best, and best conducts the stream: The purple mass a sudden torrent rolls, Whose groves the fastest thicken and ascend O’erpowers the heart, and deluges the lungs Whom first the welcome Spring salutes ; who shows With dangerous inundation ; oft the source The earliest bloom, the sweetest proudest charms Of fatal woes; a cough that foams with blood, Of Flora; who best gives Pomona's juice
Asthma, and feller peripneumony t, To match the sprightly genius of champagne. Or the slow minings of the hectic fire. Thrice happy days! in rural business past :
Th' athletic fool, to whom what Heaven deny'd Blest winter nights ! when, as the genial fire Of soul is well compensated in limbs, Cheers the wide hall, his cordial family
Oft from his rage, or brainless frolic, feels With soft domestic arts the hours beguile,
His vegetation and brute force decay. And pleasing talk that starts no timorous fame, The men of better clay and finer mould With witless wantonness to hunt it down :
Know nature, feel the human dignity, Or through the fairy-land of tale or song
And scorn to vie with oxen or with apes. Delighted wander, in fictitious fates
Pursu'd prolixly, even the gentlest toil Engag'd, and all that strikes humanity :
Is waste of health : repose by small fatigue Till lost in fable, they the stealing hour
Is earn'd, and (where your habit is not prone Of timely rest forget. Sometimes, at eve
To thaw) by the first moisture of the brows.
But when the hard varieties of life
Or the warm deeds of some important day :
Hot from the field, indulge not yet your limbs The native zest and flavour of the fruit,
In wish'd repose ; nor court the fanning gale, Where sense grows wild and tastes of no manure) Nor taste the spring. O! by the sacred tears The decent, honest, cheerful husbandman
Of widows, orphans, mothers, sisters, sires, Should drown his labour in my friendly bowl; Forbear! no other pestilence has driven And at my table find himself at home.
Such myriads o'er th' irremeable deep. Whate'er you study, in whate'er you sweat, Why this so fatal, the sagacious Muse Indulge your taste. Some love the manly foils; Through nature's cunning labyrinths could trace: The tennis some; and some the graceful dance. But there are secrets which who knows not now, Others, more hardy, range the purple heath, Must, ere he reach them, climb the heapy Alps Or naked stubble; where, from field to field, Of science; and devote seven years to toil. The sounding coveys urge their labouring flight ; Besides, I would not stun your patient ears Eager amid the rising cloud to pour
With what it little boots you to attain. The gun's unerring thunder : and there are He knows enough, the mariner, who knows Whom still the meed of the green archer charms. Where lurk the shelves, and where the whirlpools He chooses best, whose labour entertains
What signs portend the storm : to subtler minds • This word is much used by some of the old English poets, and signifies reward or prize.
+ The inflammation of the lungs.
He leaves to scan, from what mysterious cause He not the safe vicissitudes of life
Without some shock endures; ill-fitted he
In ancient times, when Rome with Athens vied Grow too familiar: for by frequent use For polish'd luxury and useful arts ;
The strongest medicines lose their healing power, All hot and reeking from th’ Olympic strife, And even the surest poisons theirs to kill. And warm Palestra, in the tepid bath
Let those who from the frozen Arctos reach Th' athletic youth relax'd their weary limbs. Parch'd Mauritania, or the sultry west, Soft oils bedew'd them, with the grateful pow'rs Or the wide food that laves rich Indostan, Of nard and cassia fraught, to soothe and heal Plunge thrice a day, and in the tepid ware The cherish'd nerves. Our less voluptuous clime Untwist their stubborn pores; that full and free Not much invites us to such arts as these.
Th' evaporation through the soften'd skin 'T is not for those, whom gelid skies embrace, May bear proportion to the swelling blood. And chilling fogs; whose perspiration feels So may they 'scape the fever's rapid flames; Such frequent bars from Eurus and the North ; So feel untainted the hot breath of Hell. 'Tis not for those to cultivate a skin
With us, the man of no complaint demands
The warm ablution just enough to clear
Still to be pure, ev'n did it not conduce
(As much it does) to health, were greatly worth Escape, and viewless melt into the winds.
Your daily pains. "T is this adorns the rich; While this eternal, this most copious waste
The want of this is poverty's worst woe; Of blood, degenerates into vapid brine,
With this external virtue, age maintains Maintains its wonted measure, all the powers A decent grace; without it, youth and charms Of health befriend you, all the wheels of life Are loathsome. This the venal graces know; With ease and pleasure move: but this restrain'd So doubtless do your wives: for married sires, Or more or less, so more or less you feel
As well as lovers, still pretend to taste ; The functions labour : from this fatal source Nor is it less (all prudent wives can tell) What woes descend is never to be sung.
To lose a husband's than a lover's heart To take their numbers, were to count the sands But now the hours and seasons when to toil That ride in whirlwind the parch'd Libyan air ; From foreign themes recall my wandering song. Or waves that, when the blustering North embroils Some labour fasting, or but slightly fed The Baltic, thunder on the German shore.
To lull the grinding stomach's hungry rage. Subject not then, by soft emollient arts,
Where nature feeds too corpulent a frame This grand expense, on which your fates depend, 'Tis wisely done : for while the thirsty veins, To every caprice of the sky; nor thwart
Impatient of lean penury, devour
To shake the lazy balsam from its cells.
Now while the stomach from the full repast Which breathe through straiter and more callous Subsides, bụt ere returning hunger gnaws, pores.
Ye leaner habits, give an hour to toil; The temper'd Scythian hence, half-naked treads And ye whom no luxuriancy of growth His boundless snows, nor rues th' inclement Heaven; Oppresses yet, or threatens to oppress. And hence our painted ancestors defied
But from the recent meal no labours please, The east; nor curs'd, like us, their fickle sky. Of limbs or mind. For now the cordial powers
The body, moulded by the clime, endures Claim all the wandering spirits to a work The equator heats or hyperborean frost :
Of strong and subtle toil, and great event : Except by habits foreign to its turn,
A work of time ; and you may rue the day
You hurried, with untimely exercise,
While winter chills the blood and binds the reins, Against the rigors of a damp cold heav'n
No labours are too hard : by those you 'scape To fortify their bodies, some frequent
The slow diseases of the torpid year; The gelid cistern; and, where nought forbids, Endless to name; to one of which alone, I praise their dauntless heart: a frame so steel'd To that which tears the nerves, the toil of slaves Dreads not the cough, nor those ungenial blasts Is pleasure : Oh! from such inhuman pains That breathe the tertian or fell rheumatism; May all be free who merit not the wheel! The nerves so temper'd never quit their tone, But from the burning Lion when the Sun No chronic languors haunt such hardy breasts, Pours down his sultry wrath ; now while the blood But all things have their bounds; and he who | Too much already maddens in the veins makes
And all the finer fluids through the skin By daily use the kindest regimen
Explore their flight; me, near the cool cascade Essential to his health, should never mix
Reclin'd, or saunt'ring in the lofty grove, With human kind, nor art nor trade pursue: No needless slight occasion should engage
To pant and sweat beneath the fiery noon.
O shame! O pity! nipt with pale quadrille, Now the fresh morn alone and mellow eve
And midnight cares, the bloom of Albion dies ! To shady walks and active rural sports
By toil subdu'd, the warrior and the hind Invite. But, while the chilling dews descend, Sleep fast and deep: their active functions soon May nothing tempt you to the cold embrace With generous streams the subtle tubes supply; Of humid skies; though 't is no vulgar joy
And soon the tonic irritable nerves To trace the horrours of the solemn wood
Feel the fresh impulse and awake the soul. While the soft evening saddens into night:
The sons of indolence with long repose Though the sweet poet of the vernal groves
Grow torpid; and, with slowest Lethe drunk, Melts all the night in strains of am'rous woe. Feebly and ling'ringly return to life,
The shades descend, and midnight o'er the world Blunt every sense and powerless every limb. Expands her sable wings. Great nature droops Ye, prone to sleep (whom sleeping most annoys) Through all her works. Now happy he whose toil On the hard mattress or elastic couch Has o'er his languid powerless limbs diffus'd Extend your limbs, and wean yourselves from sloth; A pleasing lassitude: he not in vain
Nor grudge the lean projector, of dry brain Invokes the gentle deity of dreams.
And springy nerves, the blandishments of down: His powers the most voluptuously dissolve Vor envy while the buried Bacchanal In soft repose : on him the balmy dews
Exhales his surfeit in prolixer dreams, Of sleep with double nutriment descend.
He without riot, in the balmy feast But would you sweetly waste the blank of night Of life, the wants of nature has supply'd, In deep oblivion ; or on Fancy's wings
Who rises, cool, serene, and full of soul. Visit the paradise of happy dreams,
But pliant nature more or less demands, And waken cheerful as the lively morn;
As custom forms her; and all sudden change Oppress not nature sinking down to rest
She hates of habit, even from bad to good. With feasts too late, too solid, or too full :
If faults in life, or new emergencies, But be the first concoction half-matur'd
From habits urge you by long time confirm'd, Ere you to mighty indolence resign
Slow may the change arrive, and stage by stage; Your passive faculties. He from the toils
Slow as the shadow o'er the dial moves, And troubles of the day to heavier toil
Slow as the stealing progress of the year. Retires, whom trembling from the tower that rocks Observe the circling year. How unperceiv'd Amid the clouds, or Calpe's hideous height, Her seasons change! Behold! by slow degrees, The busy demons hurl; or in the main
Stern Winter tâm'd into a ruder Spring; O'erwhelm; or bury struggling under grouud. The ripen'd Spring a milder Summer's glows; Not all a monarch's luxury the woes
The parting Summer sheds Pomona's store, Can counterpoise of that most wretched man, And aged Autumn brews the winter storm. Whose nights are shaken with the frantic fits Slow as they come, these changes come not void Of wild Orestes; whose delirious brain,
Of mortal shocks : the cold and torrid reigns, Stung by the furies, works with poison'd thought ; The two great periods of the important year, While pale and monstrous painting shocks the soul; | Are in their first approaches seldom safe ; And mangled consciousness bemoans itself
Funeral Autumn all the sickly dread; For ever torn; and chaos floating round.
And the black fates deform the lovely Spring. What dreams presage, what dangers these or those He well advis'd who taught our wiser sires Portend to sanity, though prudent seers
Early to borrow Muscovy's warm spoils, Reveal'd of old, and men of deathless fame, Ere the first frost has touch'd the tender blade; We would not to the superstitious mind
And late resign them, though the wanton Spring Suggest new throbs, new vanities of fear.
Should deck her charms with all her sister's rays. 'Tis ours to teach you from the peaceful night For while the effluence of the skin maintains To banish omens and all restless woes.
Its native measure, the pleuritic Spring In study some protract the silent hours,
Glides harmless by; and Autumn, sick to death Which others consecrate to mirth and wine; With sallow quartans, no contagion breathes. And sleep till noon, and hardly live till night. I in prophetic numbers could unfold But surely this redeems not from the shades The omens of the year : what seasons teem One hour of life, Nor does it nought avail With what diseases; what the hunnid South What season you to drowsy Morpheus give Prepares, and what the demon of the East: Of th' ever-varying circle of the day;
But you perhaps refuse the tedious song. Or whether, through the tedious winter gloom, Besides, whatever plagues in heat, or cold, You tempt the midnight or the morning damps. Or drought, or moisture dwell, they hurt not you, The body, fresh and vigorous from repose,
Skill'd to correct the vices of the sky, Defies the early fogs : but, by the toils
And taught already how to each extreme Of wakeful day exhausted and unstrung,
To bend your life. But should the public bane Weakly resists the night's unwholesome breath. Infect you; or some trespass of your own, The grand discharge, th' effusion of the skin, Or ilaw of nature, hint mortality; Slowly impair'd, the languid maladies
Soon as a not unpleasing horrour glides Creep on, and through the sick’ning functions steal. Along the spine, through all your torpid limbs ; As, when the chilling east invades the Spring, When first the head throbs, or the stomach feels The delicate narcissus pines away
A sickly load, a weary pain the loins;
Be Celsus callid: the fates come rushing on;