WHAT though no Muses my wrapt soul inspire,
Or bid a poet touch the sacred lyre?
Yet shall my pen attempt a humble strain,
(Nor on so fair a theme attempt in vain)-
Be others' song of war, of love, of wine,
Nor Venus, Mars, nor Bacchus shall be mine;
I sing of meadows, vallies, purling streams
and the angler's skill, compose my themes.
To diff'rent modes of pleasure all resort-
I envy none, so I've my favourite sport:
Some men, ambitious to obtain a name,
Are slaves for life to gain posthumous fame;
The miser, brooding o'er his golden heap,
Can no enjoyment from possession reap;
But always thirsting to increase his store,
In plenty pines, ridiculously poor:
The youthful statesman, by ambition fir'd,
Burns with impatience for the point desir'd;
But ere the wish'd for prospect is in view,
He longs-he pants-another to pursue :
Prompted by avarice, and love of gain,
The merchant braves the rough tempestuous main ;
To distant regions sails with heart elate,
And brings home wealth enough to live-in state;
But yet he has not found, by change of air,
That richest prize--an antidote to care:
The man of fashion, tir'd of town delights-
Days spent in folly, and luxurious nights,-
Flies to the country, there expects to meet
Ease for the mind, and happiness complete;
But still past pleasures are impress'd so strong,
No rural scenes can entertain him long:
Thus discontent seems woven in our frame,
And perfect bliss is nothing but a name;
Yet, if we strove, with diligence severe,
To keep our breasts from cank'ring envy clear,
Much of this peevish humour would subside,
If man would only keep himself employ'd.
For me the country has unnumber'd joys,
I hate the city's bustle, throng and noise.
There will I pass the ev'ning of my days,
And drink the cup of innocence and peace:
Nor e'er the want of entertainment know,
While through the vallies gliding rivers flow.
Some men delight, when winds autumnal bring, From climes unknown, the Woodcock's vagrant wing,
To seek the stranger, where the gurgling rill,
Beneath the sylvan bank, invites his bill!
They mark his rising, and his crooked flight,
And hurl the thunder when he darts outright.
Others, a hardy and intrepid race,
Dare the bold pleasures of the boist❜rous chace.
Such with the beagle rise, at dusky morn,
Mount the swift courser, at the sound of horn;
Rouse up the Hare close squatted in the bush,
Strain up the mountains, down the mountains rush,
Plunge in the rapid flood, o'erleap the mound,
And shout their conquest bleeding on the ground.
Each, as his genius prompts, or nerves can strain,
Varies his sport; I no man's joy arraign.
ME-lonely vales and winding currents please,
And arts of fishing entertain my ease.
But mine is not the glory to unfurl
The spacious net, and o'er the stream to hurl;
Nor, wading to the neck in mud obscene,
Tug the cork-buoyant mesh whole streams to clean:
The decent Angle's mine; my pride would slay
Her thousands, but in Doctor (a) Purgon's way,
A lordly Pike, or a low Gudgeon kill,
Secundum artem, with a learned pill.
Nor fear that Virtue frown upon my play,
If through the verdant meads I fish and stray.
Virtue, severe, on no enjoyment smiles,
Which idle hours debase, or vice defiles;
The wise to life's momentous work attend;
And think and act still pointing to their end!
As
yon clear streams one constant tenor keep,
Rolling their liquid homage to the deep.
But books or bus'ness with unceasing care,
What force of body or of mind can bear?
The steed, unharness'd from the plough awhile,
Returns with spirit to his daily toil.
(a) A character in the Malade Imaginaire of Molière.
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