His glory, and his nature, to impart. But to the proud, uncandid, infincere, Or negligent inquirer, not a fpark.

What's that which brings contempt upon a book,
And him who writes it; though the ftyle be neat,
The method clear, and argument exact?
That makes a minister in holy things

The joy of many, and the dread of more,
His name a theme for praise and for reproach?-
That, while it gives us worth in God's account,
Depreciates and undoes us in our own?
What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy,
That learning is too proud to gather up;
But which the poor, and the defpis'd of all,
Seek and obtain, and often find unfought?
Tell me and I will tell thee what is truth.

O, friendly to the best pursuits of man,
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace,
Domestic life in rural leifure pafs'd!

Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets;
Though many boaft thy favours, and affect
To understand and choose thee for their own.
But foolish man foregoes his proper blifs,

Ev'n as his firft progenitor, and quits,
Though placed in paradife, (for earth has ftill
Some traces of her youthful beauty left)
Subftantial happiness for tranfient joy.

Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse
The growing feeds of wisdom; that suggest,
By ev'ry pleafing image they prefent,
Reflections fuch as meliorate the heart,
Compose the paffions, and exalt the mind;
Scenes fuch as thefe 'tis his fupreme delight
To fill with riot, and defile with blood.
Should fome contagion, kind to the poor brutes
We perfecute, annihilate the tribes

That draw the sportsman over hill and dale,
Fearless, and rapt away from all his cares;
Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again,
Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye;
Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song,
Be quell'd in all our summer-months' retreat;
How many felf-deluded nymphs and swains,
Who dream they have a tafte for fields and groves,
Would find them hideous nurs'ries of the spleen,
And crowd the roads, impatient for the town!
They love the country, and none else, who feek

For their own fake its filence and its fhade.

Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Sufceptible of pity, or a mind

Cultur'd and capable of fober thought,

For all the favage din of the fwift pack,
And clamours of the field?-Detefted sport,
That owes its pleasures to another's pain;
That feeds upon the fobs and dying shrieks
Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endu'd
With eloquence, that agonies inspire,

Of filent tears and heart-diftending fighs?
Vain tears, alas, and fighs, that never find
A correfponding tone in jovial fouls!
Well-one at leaft is fafe. One fhelter'd hare
Has never heard the fanguinary yell
Of cruel man, exulting in her woes.
Innocent partner of my peaceful home,
Whom ten long years' experience of my care
Has made at laft familiar; fhe has loft
Much of her vigilant instinctive dread,
Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.
Yes-thou may'ft eat thy bread, and lick the hand
That feeds thee; thou may'ft frolic on the floor
At evening, and at night retire secure

To thy ftraw couch, and flumber unalarm'd;

For I have gain'd thy confidence, have pledg'd
All that is human in me to protect

Thine unfufpecting gratitude and love.
If I furvive thee I will dig thy grave;
And, when I place thee in it, fighing, fay,

I knew at least one hare that had a friend.

How various his employments, whom the world Calls idle; and who juftly, in return,

Efteems that bufy world an idler too!

Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,
Delightful induftry enjoy'd at home,

And nature in her cultivated trim

Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad—
Can he want occupation who has these?
Will he be idle who has much t' enjoy?
Me, therefore, ftudious of laborious eafe,
Not flothful; happy to deceive the time,
Not wafte it; and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,
When He fhall call his debtors to account
From whom are all our bleffings; bus'nefs finds
Ev'n here: while fedulous I seek t' improve,

At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd,

The mind he gave me; driving it, though slack
Too oft, and much impeded in its work
By causes not to be divulg'd in vain,
To its juft point-the fervice of mankind.
He that attends to his interior self,

That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind
That hungers, and fupplies it; and who feeks
A focial, not a diffipated life;

Has business; feels himself engag'd t' achieve
No unimportant, though a filent, task.
A life all turbulence and noise may feem,
To him that leads it, wife, and to be prais'd;
But wisdom is a pearl with most success
Sought in ftill water, and beneath clear skies.
He that is ever occupied in ftorms,

Or dives not for it, or brings up instead,
Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize.

The morning finds the felf-fequefter'd man
Fresh for his task, intend what task he may.
Whether inclement seasons recommend

His warm but fimple home, where he enjoys,
With her who shares his pleasures and his heart, wifle