44 ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH.
Unknown in song; tho' not a purer stream
Thro' meads more flow'ry or more romantic groves
Rolls toward the western main. Hail sacred Flood!
May still thy hospitable swains be blest
In rural innocence, thy mountains still
Teem with the fleecy race, thy tuneful woods
For ever flourish, and thy vales look gay
With painted meadows and the golden grain!
Oft with thy blooming sons, when life was new,
Sportive and petulant, and charm'd with toys,
In thy transparent eddies have I lav'd,
Oft trac'd with patient steps thy Fairy banks, 90
With the well imitated fly to hook
The eager trout, and with the slender line
And yielding rod solicit to the shore
The struggling panting prey, while vernal clouds
And tepid gales obscur'd the ruffled pool,
And from the deeps call'd forth the wanton swarms.
Form'd on the Samian school or those of Ind
There are who think these pastimes scarce huinane :
Yet in my mind (and not relentless I)
His life is pure that wears no fouler stains.
But if thro' genuine tenderness of heart,
Or secret want of relish for the game,
You shun the glories of the chase, nor care
To haunt the peopled stream, the garden yields
A soft amusement, an humane delight.
To raise th' insipid nature of the ground;
Or tame its savage genius to the grace
Of careless sweet rusticity that seems
The amiable result of happy chance,
Is to create, and gives a godlike joy
Which ev'ry year improves. Nor thou disdain
To check the lawless riot of the trees,
To plant the grove, or turn the barren mould.
O happy he whom when his years decline
(His fortune and his fame by worthy means
Attain’d, and equal to his mod'rate mind,
His life approv'd by all the wise and good,
Ev'n envy'd by the vain) the peaceful groves
Of Epicurus from this stormy world
Receive to rest, of all ungrateful cares
Absolv'd, and sacred from the selfish crowd!
Happiest of men! if the same soil invites
A chosen few, companions of his youth,
Once fellow-rakes perhaps, now rural friends,
With whom in easy commerce to pursue
Nature's free charms, and vie for sylvan fame;
A fair ambition, void of strife or guile,
Or jealousy or pain to be outdone;
Who plans th' enchanted garden, who directs
The visto best, and best conducts the stream, 130
Whose groves the fastest thicken and ascend,
Whom first the welcome spring salutes, who shows
The earliest bloom, the sweetest proudest charms
Of Flora, who best gives Pomona's juice
To match the sprightly genius of Champaign. 135
Thrice happy days in rural bus'ness past!
Blest winter nights! when as the genial fire
Cheers the wide hall his cordial family
With soft domestic arts the hours beguile,
And pleasing talk that starts no tim❜rous fame, 140
With witless wantonness to hunt it down,
Or thro' the Fairyland of tale or song
Delighted wander, in fictitious fates
Engag'd, and all that strikes humanity;
Till lost in fable they the stealing hour
Of timely rest forget. Sometimes at eve
His neighbours lift the latch, and bless unbid
His festal roof, while o'er the light repast
And sprightly cups they mix in social joy,
And thro' the maze of conversation trace
Whate'er amuses or improves the mind.
Sometimes at eve (for I delight to taste
The native zest and flavour of the fruit
Where sense grows wild and takes of no manure)
155
The decent, honest, cheerful husbandman
Should drown his labours in my friendly bowl,
And at my table find himself at home.
Whate'er you study, in whate'er you sweat,
Indulge your taste. Some love the manly foils,
The tennis some, and some the graceful dance ; 160
Others more hardy range the purple heath
Or naked stubble, where from field to field
The sounding covies urge their lab'ring flight,
Eager amid the rising cloud to pour
The gun's unerring thunder; and there are
Whom still the meed* of the green archer charms.
He chooses best whose labour entertains
His vacant fancy most: the toil you
Fatigues you soon, and scarce improves your limbs,
As beauty still has blemish, and the mind 170
The most accomplish'd its imperfect side,
Few bodies are there of that happy mould
But some one part is weaker than the rest;
The legs perhaps or arms refuse their load,
Or the chest labours: these assiduously
But gently in their proper arts employ'd
Acquire a vigour and springy activity
To which they were not born: but weaker parts
Abhor fatigue and violent discipline.
Begin with gentle toils, and as your nerves 180
Grow firm, to hardier, by just steps aspire.
The prudent ev'n in ev'ry mod'rate walk
At first but saunter, and by slow degrees
Increase their pace. This doctrine of the wise
Well knows the master of the flying steed.
First from the goal the manag'd coursers play
On bended reins; as yet the skilful youth
Repress their foamy pride; but ev'ry breath
*This word is much used by some of the old English poets, and signifies reward or prize.
The race grows warmer, and the tempest swells
Till all the fiery mettle has its way
And the thick thunder hurries o'er the plain.
When all at once from indolence to toil
You spring, the fibres by the hasty shock
Are tir'd and crack'd before their unctuous coats
Compress'd can pour the lubricating balm.
Besides, collected in the passive veins
The purple mass a sudden torrent rolls,
O'erpow'rs the heart and deluges the lungs
With dang`rous inundation; oft the source
Of fatal woes, a cough that foams with blood, 200
Asthma and feller peripneumony*,
Or the slow minings of the hectic fire.
Th' athletic fool to whom what Heav'n deny'd
Of soul is well compensated in limbs,
Oft from his rage or brainless frolic feels
His vegetation and brute force decay.
The men of better clay and finer mould
Know nature, feel the human dignity,
And scorn to vie with oxen or with apes.
Pursu'd prolixly ev'n the gentlest toil
Is waste of Health: repose by small fatigue
Is earn'd, and (where your habit is not prone
To thaw) by the first moisture of the brows.
The fine and subtile spirits cost too much
To be profus'd, too much the roscid balm :
The inflammation of the lungs.
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