Her busy tongue, through all the little state,
Diffuses doubt, suspicion, and debate ;
Peace, timorous goddess! quits her old domain,
In sentiment and song content to reign.

LICENTIOUSNESS; CONTAGIous.

Nor are the nymphs that breathe the rural air So fair as Cynthia's, nor so chaste as fair; These to the town afford each fresher face, And the clown's trull receives the peer's embrace; From whom, should chance again convey her down, The peer's disease in turn attacks the clown.

POACHING.

Hear too the 'squire, or 'squire-like farmer, talk, How round their regions nightly pilferers walk; How from their ponds the fish are borne, and all The ripening treasures from their lofty wall; How meaner rivals in their sports delight, Just rich enough to claim a doubtful right; Who take a license round their fields to stray, A mongrel race! the poachers of the day.

A VILLAGE RIOT ON THE VILLAGE GREEN.

And hark! the riots of the green begin, That sprang at first from yonder noisy inn; What time the weekly pay was vanished all, And the slow hostess scored the threatening wall; What time they asked, their friendly feast to close, A final cup, and that will make them foes; When blows ensue that break the arm of toil, And rustic battle ends the boobies' broil.

THE JUSTICE'S HALL.

Save when to yonder hall they bend their way, Where the grave justice ends the grievous fray; He who recites, to keep the poor in awe, The law's vast volume-for he knows the law. To him with anger or with shame repair The injured peasant and deluded fair.

VICE ON THE BENCH AND AT THE BAR.

Lo! at his throne the silent nymph appears, Frail by her shape, but modest in her tears; And while she stands abashed, with conscious eye, Some favorite female of her judge glides by ; Who views with scornful glance the strumpet's fate, And thanks the stars that made her keeper great : Near her the swain, about to bear for life One certain evil, doubts 'twixt war and wife; But, while the faltering damsel takes her oath, Consents to wed, and so secures them both.

VICE ESSENTIALLY LOW AND VULGAR.

Yet why, you ask, these humble crimes relate, Why make the poor as guilty as the great ? To show the great, those mightier sons of pride, How near in vice the lowest are allied; Such are their natures, and their passions such, But these disguise too little, those too much : So shall the man of power and pleasure see In his own slave as vile a wretch as he;

In his luxurious lord the servant find
His own low pleasures and degenerate mind;
And each in all the kindred vices trace,
Of a poor, blind, bewildered, erring race!
Who, a short time in varied fortune past,
Die, and are equal in the dust at last.

ENVY OF THE RICH BY THE POOR, DISSUADED FROM. And you, ye poor, who still lament your fate, Forbear to envy those you call the great; And know, amid those blessings they possess, They are, like you, the victims of distress; While sloth with many a pang torments her slave, Fear waits on guilt, and danger shakes the brave. O, if in life one noble chief appears, Great in his name, while blooming in his years; Born to enjoy whate'er delights mankind, And yet to all you feel or fear resigned; Who gave up joys and hopes to you unknown, For pains and dangers greater than your own! If such there be, then let your murmurs cease, Think, think of him, and take your lot in peace.

EULOGY OF LORD MANNERS.

And such there was:-O! grief, that checks our pride,

Weeping we say there was, for Manners died;
Beloved of Heaven, these humble lines forgive,
That sing of thee, and thus aspire to live.

As the tall oak, whose vigorous branches form
An ample shade, and brave the wildest storm,
High o'er the subject wood is seen to grow,
The guard and glory of the trees below;
Till on its head the fiery bolt descends,
And o'er the plain the shattered trunk extends;
Yet then it lies, all wondrous as before,
And still the glory, though the guard no more.
So thou, when every virtue, every grace,
Rose in thy soul, or shone within thy face;
When, though the son of Granby, thou wert known
Less by thy father's glory than thy own;
When honor loved, and gave thee every charm,
Fire to thy eye and vigor to thy arm;
Then from our lofty hopes and longing eyes,
Fate and thy virtues called thee to the skies :
Yet still we wonder at thy towering fame,
And, losing thee, still dwell upon thy name.
O, ever honored, ever valued! say
What verse can praise thee, or what work repay?
Yet verse (in all we can) thy worth repays,
Nor trusts the tardy zeal of future days; -

1 Lord Robert Manners, the youngest son of the Marquis of Granby, and the Lady Frances Seymour, daughter of Charles, Duke of Somerset, was born the 5th of February, 1758, and was placed with his brother, the late Duke of Rutland, at Eton School, where he acquired, and ever after retained, a considerable knowledge of the classical authors. Lord Robert, after going through the duties of his profession on board different ships, was made captain of the Resolution, and commanded her in nine different actions, besides the last memorable one, on the 2d of April, 1782, when, in breaking the French line of battle, he received the wounds which terminated his life, in the twenty-fourth year of his age. See Dodsley's Annual Register.

Honors for thee thy country shall prepare,
Thee in their hearts the good, the brave, shall bear;
To deeds like thine shall noblest chiefs aspire,
The muse shall mourn thee, and the world admire.
In future times, when, smit with glory's charms,
The untried youth first quits a father's arms;
O, be like him!' the weeping sire shall say,
'Like Manners walk, who walked in honor's way;
In danger foremost, yet in death sedate,
O, be like him in all things, but his fate!'
If for that fate such public tears be shed,
That victory seems to die now thou art dead;
How shall a friend his nearer hope resign,
That friend a brother, and whose soul was thine;
By what bold lines shall we his grief express,
Or by what soothing numbers make it less?

SORROW FOR THE LOVED AND HONORED DEAD.

'T is not, I know, the chiming of a song, Nor all the powers that to the muse belong, Words aptly culled and meanings well expressed, Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast; But virtue, soother of the fiercest pains, Shall heal that bosom, Rutland, where she reigns. Yet hard the task to heal the bleeding heart, To bid the still-recurring thoughts depart; Tame the fierce grief and stem the rising sigh, And curb rebellious passion, with reply; Calmly to dwell on all that pleased before, And yet to know that all shall please no more ;O, glorious labor of the soul to save Her captive powers, and bravely mourn the brave!

THE TRUE MEASURE OF LIFE.

To such, these thoughts will lasting comfort giveLife is not measured by the time we live ; "T is not an even course of three-score years,

A life of narrow views and paltry fears,
Gray hairs and wrinkles and the cares they bring,
That take from death the terrors or the sting;
But 't is the generous spirit, mounting high,
Above the world, that native of the sky;
The noble spirit, that, in dangers brave,
Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave;
Such Manners was, so he resigned his breath,
If in a glorious, then a timely, death.

GRIEF REPROBATED; IT SHOULD BE DISPLACED BY HIGHER
AND NOBLER FEELINGS; GOOD EXAMPLE COMPARED TO
THE THAMES.

Cease, then, that grief, and let those tears subside, If passion rule us, be that passion pride; If reason, reason bids us strive to raise Our fallen hearts, and be like him we praise; Or if affection still the soul subdue, Bring all his virtues, all his worth, in view, And let affection find its comfort too : For how can grief so deeply wound the heart, When admiration claims so large a part?

Grief is a foe, expel him then thy soul, Let nobler thoughts the nearer views control; O, make the age to come thy better care, See other Rutlands, other Granbys, there; And as thy thoughts through streaming ages glide, See other heroes die as Manners died: And, from their fate, thy race shall nobler grow, As trees shoot upwards that are pruned below; Or as old Thames, borne down with decent pride, Sees his young streams run warbling at his side; Though some, by art cut off, no longer run, And some are lost beneath the Summer's sunYet the pure stream moves on, and as it moves, Its power increases and its use improves ; While plenty round its spacious waves bestow, Still it flows on, and shall forever flow.

BRYANT'S "RIVULET."

THIS little rill that from the springs Of yonder grove its current brings, Plays on the slope a while, and then Goes prattling into groves again, — Oft to its warbling waters drew My little feet when life was new. When woods in early green were drest, And from the chambers of the west The warmer breezes, travelling out, Breathed the new scent of flowers about, My truant steps from home would stray, Upon its grassy side to play; To crop the violet on its brim, And listen to the throstle's hymn, With blooming cheek and open brow, As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou.

And when the days of boyhood came, And I had grown in love with fame, Duly I sought thy banks, and tried My first rude numbers by thy side. Words cannot tell how glad and gay The scenes of life before me lay. High visions, then, and lofty schemes, Glorious and bright as fairy dreams, And daring hopes, that now to speak Would bring the blood into my cheek, Passed o'er me; and I wrote on high A name I deemed should never die.

Years change thee not. Upon yon hill The tall old maples, verdant still, Yet tell, in proud and grand decay, How swift the years have passed away, Since first, a child, and half afraid, I wandered in the forest shade. But thou, gay, merry rivulet, Dost dimple, play, and prattle, yet ; And sporting with the sands that pave The windings of thy silver wave, And dancing to thy own wild chime, Thou laughest at the lapse of time. The same sweet sounds are in my ear My early childhood loved to hear; As pure thy limpid waters run, As bright they sparkle to the sun; As fresh the herbs that crowd to drink

The moisture of thy oozy brink;
The violet there, in soft, May dew,
Comes up, as modest and as blue;
As green amid thy current's stress
Floats the scarce-rooted water cress;
And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen,
Still chirps as merrily as then.

Thou changest not- but I am changed, Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged; And the grave stranger, come to see The play-place of his infancy, Has scarce a single trace of him Who sported once upon thy brim. The visions of my youth are past Too bright, too beautiful, to last. I've tried the world it wears no more The coloring of romance it wore. Yet well has nature kept the truth She promised to my earliest youth; The radiant beauty, shed abroad On all the glorious works of God, Shows freshly, to my sobered eye, Each charm it wore in days gone by.

A few brief years shall pass away, And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold My ashes in the embracing mould, If haply the dark will of fate Indulge my life so long a date, May come for the last time to look Upon my childhood's favorite brook. Then dimly on my eye shall gleam The sparkle of thy dancing stream; And faintly on my ear shall fall Thy prattling current's merry call; Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright As when thou met'st my infant sight.

Through the dry leaves, in grass and bush,
As insect, animal, and bird,

Rouse brief from their lethargic hush.
Then e'en these pleasant sounds would cease,
And a dread stillness all things lock :
The aspen seem like sculptured rock,
And not a tassel thread be shaken,
The monarch pine's deep trance to waken,
And Nature settle prone in drowsy peace.
The misty blue the distant masses,

The air in woven purple glimmering,

The shiver transiently that passes

Over the leaves, as though each tree

Gave one brief sigh-the slumberous shimmering
Of the red light-invested seem

With some sweet charm, that soft, serene,
Mellows the gold — the blue
the green,

Into mild, tempered harmony,

And melts the sounds that intervene,

As scarce to break the quiet, till we deem Nature herself transformed to Fancy's dream.

ANACREON'S "GRASSHOPPER."

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK BY COWLEY.

HAPPY insect, what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill ; "T is filled wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants, belong to thee; All that summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice. Man for thee does sow and plough; Farmer he, and landlord thou! Thou dost innocently enjoy ; Nor does thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy sire.

To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou,

Dost neither age nor winter know.

But when thou 'st drunk, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among
(Voluptuous and wise withal,
Epicurean animal !),

Satiated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.

CLARE'S "SUMMER INSECTS."

THESE tiny loiterers on the barley's beard,
And happy units of a numerous herd

Of playfellows, the laughing Summer brings;
Mocking the sunshine on their glittering wings;
How merrily they creep, and run, and fly!
No kin they bear to labor's drudgery,
Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose,
And where they fly for dinner no one knows;
The dew-drop feeds them not; they love the shine
Of noon, whose suns may bring them golden wine.
All day they're playing in their Sunday dress
When night reposes they can do no less;
Then to the heathbell's purple hood they fly,
And, like to princes in their slumbers, lie
Secure from rain, and dropping dews, and all
On silken beds in roomy, painted hall.
So merrily they spend their summer day,
Or in the corn-fields, or in new-mown hay.
One almost fancies that such happy things,
With colored hoods and richly-burnished wings,
Are fairy folk, in splendid masquerade
Disguised, as if of mortal folk afraid;
Keeping their joyous pranks a mystery still,
Lest glaring day should do their secrets ill.

MILTON'S "EVENING."

Now came still Evening on, and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad; Silence accompanied for beast and bird They to their grassy couch, these to their nests Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale. She all night long her amorous descant sung; Silence was pleased: now glowed the firmament With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest till the Moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.

CANTO I.

ARGUMENT.

Beauties

How a proprietor should live in the country. of nature. Folly of many desires. Meanness and disappointment resulting from town life; country amusements, choice of. The sage's enjoyment in the country. Spring and autumn, their different scenes. Summer. Winter, its pleasures. Backgammon. Chess. Lecture. Spring, its amusements. Angling. Shooting. Staghunting, death of the stag. Arts. Pleasures of friendship necessary. Hospitality to the living. Hospitality to the dead. Honors paid to authors. Incitements to generosity. Rural industry. Rustic poverty relieved. The village pastor, village schoolmaster. Infant dispositions. Infant abilities. Superstition, advice against. Rustic amusements. Bowls, archery, dancing.

RURAL POETRY. BOILEAU. VIRGIL.

FROM Boileau's muse, of bold and haughty tone, The rigid laws of polished verse are known; The Mantuan bard has bid the docile field With readier zeal its tardy produce yield. Fain would my numbers teach the human heart That pure enjoyment which our fields impart : How vain the wish! so shall the sylvan muse Each pedant rule, each harsher note, refuse; Show Nature's form in smiling beauty drest, And call mankind to view her and be blest!

INVOCATION TO COUNTRY QUIET AND VIRTUE.

Come, then, ye blissful scenes, ye soft retreats Where life flows pure, the heart more calmly beats; Where harmless pleasure lulls the tranquil mind, Nor leaves the sting of dire reproach behind! Inspire my pen! that, drawn in Nature's cause, With genuine pleasure mingles Virtue's laws.

WHO BEST ENJOY THE COUNTRY.-SUFFERERS FROM THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.'

What though our meads with purest bliss are fraught?

Few mortals know to feel it as they ought.
For, not alone to sensual powers confined,
It asks the guiltless taste and spotless mind.
Here let me not, with declamation vain
And counsel sad, afflict the wretched train,
That, in the lap of early luxury bred,
With wandering steps its prostrate ruins tread.
Too much, alas! must bleeding France lament
The
ravage dire that wild Reform has sent !
Yet not to France alone my muse shall sing:
For every clime she prunes her daring wing.

VIRTUE NECESSARY TO CONTENT. WITHOUT INNOCENCE ALL PLEASURES PALL; DISCONTENT OF THE LISTLESS HEIR.

Wouldst thou, sequestered 'midst thy rustic bowers, In calm contentment pass the tranquil hours? Thy sylvan gods, that guard the sacred round, With incense pure must see their altars crowned; Not like yon heir corrupt, of simple sire, Who, ere enjoyment comes, has lost desire; Whose veering wishes, ever on the range, Shift, like his current coin, in endless change. See him in town: scarce does the morning rise, The town fatigues, and to the fields he flies; There scarce arrived before his mansion gate, Disgust and vapored Spleen his coming wait: Scarce has his eye the gay parterre surveyed, The Chinese temple, and the greenhouse shade; Tired of the scene, by new-born wishes drawn, He hastes to Paris, at the play to yawn. Thus palled with pleasures, ever seeking new, He blames the town, reviles the country too : The fault is his alone, the ceaseless strife Of meeting wishes sours the stream of life.

SIMPLICITY. - POMP AND PARADE OUT OF PLACE IN THE COUNTRY; THE WEALTHY CLOWN; THE OFFICE-SEEKER.

Amidst thy fields, whence simplest pleasures flow, Search not the labored pomp of empty show; Else wilt thou find, a prey to useless pride, Thy mind depressed, thy heart dissatisfied. Too oft does Man, with Nature still at war, In proud conceit, her fairest prospects mar: With pitying eye I mark the wealthy clown, That to the country brings the city down, With splendid pomp adorns his house and board, And at the village acts the sumptuous lord. With added grief each upstart heir I view, Who rashly bids his father's house adieu, Courts the gay world, and, in the public eye, Squanders the rent his rich domains supply; With mean attendance guards the great man's gate, With eager look his passing glance to wait; Pleased if some placeman beckon him aside, And fan with flattering hopes his empty pride.

POWER AND PLACE INIMICAL TO PEACE. CITY CARES AND
COUNTRY PEACE.

How soon,
alas! by sad experience brought,
Arrives disgust: disgust how dearly bought!
Till, humbler grown, he seeks his fields again,
Attends his vintage, or collects his grain :