They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade;Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind Cultured and capable of sober thought, For all the savage din of the swift pack, And clamours of the field? Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain, That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued With eloquence, that agonies inspire, Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs!
Vain tears, alas! and sighs that never find A corresponding tone in jovial souls.
Well--one at least is safe. One sheltered hare Has never heard the sanguinary 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 last familiar, she has lost Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.
Yes--thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor At evening, and at night retire secure To thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed;For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged All that is human in me to protect Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love.
If I survive thee I will dig thy grave, And when I place thee in it, sighing say, I knew at least one hare that had a friend.
How various his employments, whom the world Calls idle, and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler, too!
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoyed at home, And nature in her cultivated trim Dressed to his taste, inviting him abroad--Can he want occupation who has these?
Will he be idle who has much to enjoy?
Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease, Not slothful; happy to deceive the time, Not waste it; and aware that human life Is but a loan to be repaid with use, When He shall call His debtors to account, From whom are all our blessings; business finds Even here: while sedulous I seek to improve, At least neglect not, or leave unemployed, The mind He gave me; driving it, though slack Too oft, and much impeded in its work By causes not to be divulged in vain, To its just point--the service of mankind.
He that attends to his interior self, That has a heart and keeps it; has a mind That hungers and supplies it; and who seeks A social, not a dissipated life, Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve No unimportant, though a silent task.
A life all turbulence and noise may seem, To him that leads it, wise and to be praised;But wisdom is a pearl with most success Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies.
He that is ever occupied in storms, Or dives not for it or brings up instead, Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize.
The morning finds the self-sequestered man Fresh for his task, intend what task he may.
Whether inclement seasons recommend His warm but simple home, where he enjoys, With her who shares his pleasures and his heart, Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph Which neatly she prepares; then to his book Well chosen, and not sullenly perused In selfish silence, but imparted oft As aught occurs that she may smile to hear, Or turn to nourishment digested well.
Or if the garden with its many cares, All well repaid, demand him, he attends The welcome call, conscious how much the hand Of lubbard labour needs his watchful eye, Oft loitering lazily if not o'erseen, Or misapplying his unskilful strength.
Nor does he govern only or direct, But much performs himself; no works indeed That ask robust tough sinews, bred to toil, Servile employ--but such as may amuse, Not tire, demanding rather skill than force.
Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees That meet, no barren interval between, With pleasure more than even their fruits afford, Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel.
These, therefore, are his own peculiar charge, No meaner hand may discipline the shoots, None but his steel approach them. What is weak, Distempered, or has lost prolific powers, Impaired by age, his unrelenting hand Dooms to the knife. Nor does he spare the soft And succulent that feeds its giant growth, But barren, at the expense of neighbouring twigs Less ostentatious, and yet studded thick With hopeful gems. The rest, no portion left That may disgrace his art, or disappoint Large expectation, he disposes neat At measured distances, that air and sun Admitted freely may afford their aid, And ventilate and warm the swelling buds.
Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence, And hence even Winter fills his withered hand With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own, Fair recompense of labour well bestowed And wise precaution, which a clime so rude Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the child Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods Discovering much the temper of her sire.
For oft, as if in her the stream of mild Maternal nature had reversed its course, She brings her infants forth with many smiles, But, once delivered, kills them with a frown.
He therefore, timely warned, himself supplies Her want of care, screening and keeping warm The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweep His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft As the sun peeps and vernal airs breathe mild, The fence withdrawn, he gives them ev'ry beam, And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day.
To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd, So grateful to the palate, and when rare So coveted, else base and disesteemed--Food for the vulgar merely--is an art That toiling ages have but just matured, And at this moment unessayed in song.
Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice long since, Their eulogy; those sang the Mantuan bard, And these the Grecian in ennobling strains;And in thy numbers, Philips, shines for aye The solitary Shilling. Pardon then, Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame!
The ambition of one meaner far, whose powers Presuming an attempt not less sublime, Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste Of critic appetite, no sordid fare, A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce.
