With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, To wing all her moments at home; And with scenes that new rapture inspire, As oft as it suits her to roam; She will have just the life she prefers, With little to hope or to fear, And ours would be pleasant as hers, Might we view her enjoying it here.
A HERMIT, (or if chance hold That title now too trite and old) A man, once young, who lived retired, As hermit could have well desired His hours of study closed at last, And finished his concise repast, Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book Within its customary nook,
And, staff in hand, set forth to share The sober cordial of sweet air, Like Isaac, with a mind applied To serious thought at evening tide. Autumnal rains had made it chill, And from the trees, that fringed his hill, Shades slanting at the close of day Chilled more his else delightful way. Distant a little mile he spied- A western bank's still sunny side, And right toward the favoured place Proceeding with his nimblest pace, In hope to bask a little yet,
Just reached it when the sun was set.
Your hermit, young and jovial sirs! Learns something from whate'er occursAnd hence, he said, my mind computes
Enjoyed the open air;
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song Had been their mutual solace long, Lived happy prisoners there.
They sang, as blithe as finches sing, That flutter loose on golden wing, And frolic where they list; Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, But that delight they never knew, And therefore never missed. But nature works in every breast, With force not easily suppressed; And Dick felt some desires, That after many an effort vain, Instructed him at length to gain A pass between his wires.
The open windows seemed t' invite The freeman to a farewell flight; But Tom was still confined;
And Dick, although his way was clear, Was much too generous and sincere, To leave his friend behind.
So settling on his cage, by play, And chirp, and kiss, he seemed to say, You must not live alone-
Nor would he quit that chosen stand Till I, with slow and cautious hand, Returned him to his own.
O ye, who never taste the joys Of Friendship, satisfied with noise, Fandango, ball, and rout!
Blush, when I tell you how a bird, A prison with a friend preferred To liberty without.
THERE is a field through which I often pass, Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood, Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire, That he may follow them through break and brier, Contusion hazarding of neck or spine
Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. A narrow brook, by rushy banks concealed, Runs in a bottom, and divides the field; Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ; And where the land slopes to its watery bourn Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn; Bricks line the sides, but shivered long ago And horrid brambles intertwine below; A hollow scooped, I judge, in ancient time, For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.
Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed; Nor autumn yet had brushed from every spray With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away; But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack, Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack, With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats, With a whole gamut filled of heavenly notes, For which, alas! my destiny severe,
Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. The sun, accomplishing his early march, His lamp now planted on Heaven's topmost arch, When, exercise and air my only aim,
And heedless whither, to that field I came, Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound
Told hill and dale, that Renard's track was found,
Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clang All Killwick* and all Dinglederry* rang.
Sheep grazed the field! some with soft bosom pressed
The herb as soft, while nibbling strayed the rest; Nor noise was heard, but of the hasty brook, Struggling, detained in many a petty nook.
All seemed so peaceful, that, from them conveyed, To me their peace by kind contagion spread. But when the huntsman with distended cheek, 'Gan make his instrument of music speak,
And from within the wood that crash was heard, Though not a hound from whom it burst appeared, The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that grazed; All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed, Admiring, terrified, the novel strain,
Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round again;
But, recollecting, with a sudden thought,
That flight in circles urged, advanced them naught. They gathered close round the old pit's brink, And thought again-but knew not what to think. The man to solitude accustomed long, Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue; Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees Have speech for him, and understood with ease; After long draught, when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all; Knows what the freshness of their hue implies, How glad they catch the largess of the skies; But, with precision nicer still, the mind He scans of every locomotive kind; Birds of all feather, beasts of every name, That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame; The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears Have all articulation in his ears;
He spells them true by intuition's light,
*Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq.
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