(as late, Palermo, was thy fate) is seiz'd

by some dread earthquake, and convulsive hurl'd sheer from the black foundation, stench-involv'd, into a gulph of blue sulphureous flame.

COUNTRY LIFE.

Oh knew he but his happiness, of men the happiest he! who far from public rage, deep in the vale with a choice Few retir'd, drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life. What tho' the dome be wanting, whose proud gate, each morning vomits out the sneaking crowd of flatterers false, and in their turn abus'd? vile intercouse! what tho' the glittering robe, of ev'ry hue reflected light can give, or floating loose, or stiff with mazy gold, the pride and gaze of fools! oppress him not? what tho', from utmost land and sea purvey'd, for him each rarer tributary life.

bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps with luxury and death? What tho' his bowl flames not with costly juice; nor sunk in beds, oft of gay care, he tosses out the night, or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state? what tho' he knows not those fantastic joys, that still amuse the wanton, still deceive; a face of pleasure, but a heart of pain; their hollow moments undelighted all? sure peace is his; a solid life, estrang'd to disappointment, and fallacious hope: rich in content, in nature's bounty rich, in herbs and fruits; whatever greens the Spring, when heav'n descends in show'rs or bends the bough; when Summer reddens, and when Autumn beams;

or in the Wintry glebe whatever lies

conceal'd, and fattens with the richest sap;
these are not wanting; nor the milky drove,
luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowing vale;
nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams,
and hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere
into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade,
or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay;
nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song,
dim grottoes, gleaming lakes, and fountain clear.
Here too dwells simple truth; plain innocence;
unsullied beauty; sound unbroken youth,
patient of labour, with a little pleas'd;
health ever blooming; unambitious toil;
calm contemplation, and poetic ease.
Let others brave the flood in quest of gain,
and beat, for joyless months, the gloomy wave.
Let such as deem it glory to destroy,

rush into blood, the sack of cities seek;
unpierc'd, exulting in the widow's wail,
the virgin's shriek, and infant's trembling cry.
Let some, far-distant from their native soil,
urg'd or by want or hardened avarice,
find other lands beneath another sun.
Let this through cities work his eager way,
by legal outrage and establish'd guile,
the social sense extinct; and that ferment
mad into tumult the seditious herd,
or melt them down to slavery. Let these
insnare the wretched in the toils of law,
fomenting discord, and perplexing right,
an iron race! and those of fairer front,
but equal inhumanity, in courts
delusive pomp, and dark cabals, delight;

wreath the deep bow, diffuse the lying smile, and tread the weary labyrinth of state. While he, from all the stormy passions free that restless men involve, hears, and but hears, at distance safe, the human tempest roar, wrapt close in conscious peace. The fall of kings, the rage of nations, and the crush of states, move not the man, who from the world escap'd, in still retreats, and flow'ry solitudes,

to nature's voice attends, from month to month, and day to day through the revolving year; admiring, sees her in her ev'ry shape;

feels all her sweet emotions at his heart; takes what she lib'ral gives, nor thinks of more. He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting germs marks the first bud, and sucks the heathful gale into his freshen'd soul: her genial hours he full enjoys; and not a beauty blows, and not an opening blossom breathes in vain. In summer he, beneath the living shade, such as o'er frigid Tempe wont to wave, or Hemus cool, reads what the Muse, of these perhaps, has in immortal numbers sung; or what she dictates, writes; and, oft an eye shot round, rejoices in the vigorous year. When Autumn's yellow lustre gilds the world, and tempts the sickled swain into the field, seiz'd by the gen'ral joy, his heart distends with gentle throes; and, through the tepid gleams deep musing, then he best exerts his song. Even Winter wild to him is full of bliss. The mighty tempest, and the hoary waste, abrupt, and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth, awake to solemn thought. At night the skies, 6

No. 81.

disclos'd, and kindled, by refining frost, pour ev'ry lustre on th' exalted eye.

A friend, a book, the stealing hours secure,
and mark them down for wisdom. With swift wing
o'er land and sea imagination roams;

or truth, divinely breaking on his mind,
elates his being, and unfolds his powers;
or in his breast heroic virtue burns.
The touch of kindred too and love he feels;
the modest eye, whose beams on his alone
ecstatic shine; the little strong embrace
of prattling children, twin'd around his neck,
and emulous to please him, calling forth
the fond parental soul. Nor purpose gay,
amusement, dance, or song, he sternly scorns;
for happiness and true philosophy

are of the social still, and smiling kind.
This is the life which those who fret in guilt,
and guilty cities, never knew; the life,

led by primeval ages, uncorrupt,

when angels dwelt, and God himself, with Man.

WINTER.

SEE, WINTER Comes, to rule the varied year, sullen and sad, with all-his rising train;

Vapours, and Clouds, and Storms. Be these my theme; these! that exalt the soul to solemn thought, and heavenly musing, Welcome, kindred glooms! congenial horrors, hail! with frequent foot, pleas'd have I, in my cheerful morn of life,

when nurs'd by careless solitude I liv'd, and sung of Nature with unceasing joy,

pleas'd have I wander'd through your rough domain; trod the pure virgin-snows, myself as pure; heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst; or seen the deep fermenting tempest brew'd, in the grim evening sky. Thus pass'd the time, till through the lucid chambers of the south look'd out the joyous Spring, look'd out and smil'd.

AN APOSTROPHE TO THE DEITY.

FATHER of light and life, thou Good Supreme! O teach me what is good! teach me Thyself! save me from folly, vanity, and vice, from every low pursuit! and feed my soul with knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure; sacred, substantial never-fading bliss!

DESCRIPTION OF

A MAN PERISHING

in the Snow.

As thus the snows arise; and foul and fierce, all Winter drives along the darken'd air; in his own loose-revolving fields, the swain disaster'd stands; sees other hills ascend, of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes, of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain: nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid beneath the formless wild; but wanders on from hill to dale, still more and more astray; impatient, flouncing through the drifted heaps, stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth in many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul! what black despair, what horror fills his heart!