Me poetry (or, rather, notes that aim Feebly and vainly at poetic fame) Employs, shut out from more important views, Fast by the banks of the slow-winding Ouse;

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE history of the following production is briefly this: A lady, fond of blank verse, demanded a poem of that kind from the author, and gave him the Sofa for a subject. He obeyed; and having much leisure, connected another subject with it; and, pursuing the train of thought to which his situation and turn of mind led him, brought forth at length, instead of the trifle which he at first intended, a serious affair-a volume.

In the poem on the subject of Education | he would be very sorry to stand suspected of having aimed his censure at any particular school. His objections are such as naturally apply themselves to schools in general. If there were not, as for the most part there is, wilful neglect in those who manage them, and an omission even of such discipline as they are susceptible of, the objects are yet too numerous for minute attention; and the aching hearts of ten thousand parents, mourning under the bitterest of all disappointments, attest the truth of the allegation. His quarrel therefore is with the mischief at large, and not with any particular instance of it.

THE ARGUMENT.

Historical deduction of seats, from the stool to the sofaA schoolboy's ramble-A walk in the country-The scene described-Rural sounds as well as sights delightful-Another walk-Mistake concerning the charms of solitude corrected-Colonnades commended -Alcove, and the view from it-The wilderness-The Grove-The Thresher-The necessity and the benefits of exercise-The works of nature superior to, and in

some instances inimitable by, art--The wearisomeness of what is commonly called a life of pleasure--Change of scene sometimes expedient-A common described, and the character of crazy Kate introduced-Gipsies-The blessings of civilized life-That state most favorable to virtue-The South Sea islanders compassionated, but chiefly Omai-His present state of mind supposed-Civilized life friendly to virtue, but not great cities-Great cities, and London in particular, allowed their due praise, but censured--Fête champêtre--The

book concludes with a reflection on the effects of dissipation and effeminacy upon our public measures. I SING the Sofa. I who lately sang Truth, Hope, and Charity,* and touch'd with awe

*See Poems.

Or velvet soft or plush with shaggy pile:
As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth,
The hardy chief upon the rugged rock.
Wash'd by the sea, or on the gravelly bank
Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud
Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength
Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next
The birthday of Invention; weak at first,
Dull in design, and clumsy to perform.
Joint-stools were then created on three legs
Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm
A massy slab. in fashion square or round.
On such a stool immortal Alfred sat.
And sway'd the sceptre of his infant realms:
And such in ancient halls and mansions drear
May still be seen; but perforated sore.
And drill'd in holes, the solid oak is found,
By worms voracious eating through and through
Improved the simple plan; made three legs four.
At length a generation more refined
Gave them a twisted form vermicular.
And o'er the seats with plenteous wadding stuff'd,
Induced a splendid cover, green and blue,
Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought
And woven close, or needlework sublime.
There might ye see the piony spread wide,
The full blown rose, the shepherd and his lass.
Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes,
And parrots with twin cherries in their beak.

Now came the cane from India, smooth and
With Nature's varnish, sever'd into stripes [bright
That interlaced each other, these supplied
Of texture firm a lattice work, that braced
The new machine, and it became a chair.
But restless was the chair; the back erect
Distress'd the weary loins that felt no ease;
The slippery seat betray'd the sliding part
That press'd it, and the feet hung dangling down.
Anxious in vain to find the distant floor. [placed
These for the rich; the rest. whom Fate had
In modest mediocrity, content

With base materials sat on well tann'd hides,
Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth.
With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn,
Or scarlet crewel, in the cushion fix'd,
If cushion might be call'd, what harder seem'd
Than the firm oak of which the frame was form'd.
No want of timber then was felt or fear'd
In Albion's happy isle. The lumber stood
Ponderous and fix'd by its own massy weight
But elbows still were wanting; these, some say,

The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl, That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. [Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns, And only there, please highly for their sake. Peace to the artist. whose ingenious thought Devised the weather-house, that useful toy! Fearless of humid air and gathering rains, Forth steps the man-an emblem of myself! More delicate his timorous mate retires. When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet, Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, The task of new discoveries falls on me. At such a season, and with such a charge, Once went I forth; and found till then unknown. A cottage, whither oft we since repair; "Tis perched upon the green hill top but close Environ'd with a ring of branching elms, That overhang the thatch. itself unseen Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset With foliage of such dark redundant growth, I call'd the low-roof'd lodge the peasant's nest. And, hidden as it is, and far remote From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear In village or in town, the bay of curs Incessant, clinking hammers grinding wheels, And infants clamorous whether pleased or pain'd, Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine. Here, I have said, at least I should possess The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat Dearly obtains the refuge it affords. Its elevated site forbids the wretch To drink sweet waters of the crystal well; He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch, And, heavy laden, brings his beverage home, Far fetch'd and little worth; nor seldom waits, Dependent on the baker's punctual call To hear his creaking panniers at the door, Angry and sad, and his last crust consumed. So farewell envy to the peasant's nest! If solitude make scant the means of life, Society for me!-thou seeming sweet, Be still a pleasing object in my view; My visit still but never mine abode.

Not distant far, a length of colonnade Invites us. Monument of ancient taste, Now scorn'd but worthy of a better fate. Our fathers knew the value of a screen From sultry suns; and in their shaded walks And long protracted bowers enjoyed at noon The gloom and coolness of declining day. We bear our shades about us; self-deprived Of other screen the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree. Thanks to Benevolus,* he spares me yet These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines; And, though himself so polished, still reprieves The obsolete prolixity of shade.

Descending now, but cautious, lest too fast,A sudden steep upon a rustic bridge, We pass a gulf in which the willows dip Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. Hence, ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme, We mount again, and feel at every step Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil.

* John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq., of Weston Underwood.

He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,
Disfigures earth: and plotting in the dark,
Toils much to earn a monumental pile.
That may record the mischiefs he has done.
The summit gain'd. behold the proud alcove
That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures
The grand retreat from injuries impress'd
By rural carvers, who with knives deface
The panels leaving an obscure, rude name,
In characters uncouth and spelt amiss.
So strong the zeal to immortalize himself
Beats in the breast of man. that e'en a few,
Few transient years, won from the abyss ab-
Of blank oblivion seem a glorious prize. [horr'd
And even to a clown. Now roves the eye;
And, posted on this speculative height,
Exults in its command. The sheeptold here
Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe.
At first, progressive as a stream, they seek
The middle field; but scatter'd by degrees,
Each to his choice soon whiten all the land.
There from the sun-burnt hay-field homeward
creeps

The loaded wain; while, lighten'd of its charge,
The wain that meets it passes swiftly by;
The boorish driver leaning o'er his team
Vociterous and impatient of delay.
Nor less attractive is the woodland scene,
Diversified with trees of every growth
Alike, yet various. Here the grey smooth trunks
Of ash, or lime or beech, distinctly shine,
Within the twilight of their distant shades:
There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood
Seems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs
No tree in all the grove but has its charms,
Though each its hue peculiar; paler some,
And of a wannish grey; the willow such,
And poplar. that with silver lines his leaf.
And ash far stretching his umbrageous arm;
Of deeper green the eln; and deeper still
Lord of the woods the long surviving osk
Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun,
The maple, and the beech of oily nuts
Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve
Diffusing odors: nor unnoted pass
The sycamore, capricious in attire,

Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet
Have changed the woods, in scarlet honors

bright.

O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map
Of hill and valley interposed between)
The Ouse, dividing the well water'd land,
Now glitters in the sun and now retires,
As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.

Hence the declivity is sharp and short.
And such the re-ascent; between them weeps
A little naiad her impoverish'd urn

All summer long, which winter fills again.
The folded gates would bar my progress now,
But that the lord of this enclosed demesne,
Communicative of the good he owns.
Admits me to a share: the guiltless eye
Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys
Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun!
By short transition we have lost his glare,
And stepp'd at once into a cooler clume.
Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn
Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice
That yet a remnant of your race survives.
How airy and how light the graceful arch,

• Ibid.

Yet awful as the consecrated roof
Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath
The chequer'd earth seems restless as a flood
Brush'd by the wind. So sportive is the light
Shot through the boughs, it dances as they
dance,

Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,
And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves
Play wanton, every moment, every spot.

And now, with nerves new braced and spirits cheer'd,

We tread the wilderness, whose well roll'd walks,
With curvature of slow and easy sweep-
Deception innocent-give ample space
To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;
Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms
We may discern the thresher at his task.
Thump after thump resounds the constant flail,
That seems to swing uncertain, and yet falls
Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff;
The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist
Of atoms sparkling in the noonday beam.
Come hither, ye that press your beds of down
And sleep not; see him sweating o'er his bread
Before he eats it.-'Tis the primal curse,
But soften'd into mercy; made the pledge
Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan.
By ceaseless action all that is subsists.
Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel
That Nature rides upon maintains her health,
Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads [moves.
An instant's pause, and lives but while she
Its own revolvency upholds the world.
Winds from all quarters agitate the air,
And fit the lumped element for use,

Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams.
All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed
By restless undulation: e'en the oak
Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm:
He seems indeed indignant, and to feel
The impression of the blast with proud disdain,
Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm
He held the thunder: but the monarch owes
His firm stability to what he scorns-
More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above.
The law, by which all creatures else are bound.
Binds man, the lord of all. Himselt derives
No mean advantage from a kindred cause,
From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease.
The sedentary stretch their lazy length
When custom bids, but no refreshment find,
For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek
Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk,
And wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul,
Reproach their owner with that love of rest
To which he forfeits e'en the rest he loves.
Not such the alert and active. Measure life
By its true worth, the comforts it affords.
And theirs alone seems worthy of the name.
Good health, and, its associate in the most,
Good temper: spirits prompt to undertake,
And not soon spent, though in an arduous task;
The powers of fancy and strong thought are
E'en age itself seems privileged in them (theirs;
With clear exemption from its own defects.
A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front
The veteran shows, and, gracing a grey beard
With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave
Sprightly, and old almost without decay.
Like a coy maiden Ease when courted most.
Farthest retires-an idol, at whose shrine
Who oftenest sacrifice are favor'd least.

The love of Nature and the scenes she draws
Is Nature's dictate. Strange! there should be
found,

Who, self-imprison'd in their proud saloons,
Renounce the odors of the open field
For the unscented fictions of the loom:
Who, satisfied with only pencil'd scenes,
Prefer to the performance of a God
The inferior wonders of an artist's hand!
Lovely indeed the minic works of Art;
But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire,
None more admires the painter's magic skill,
Who shows me that which I shall never see,
Conveys a distant country into mine,
And throws Italian light on English walls.
But imitative strokes can do no more
Than please the eye-sweet Nature every sense.
The air salubrious of her lofty hills,
The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales,
And music of her woods-no works of man
May rival these; these all bespeak a power
Peculiar, and exclusively her own.
Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;
'Tis free to all-tis every day renew'd;
Who scorns it starves deservedly at home.
He does not scorn it, who imprison'd long
In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey
To sallow sickness, which the vapors, dank
And clammy. of his dark abode have bred,
Escapes at last to liberty and light;
His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue;
His eye relumines its extinguish'd fires;
He walks, he leaps, he runs-is wing'd with joy,
And riots in the sweets of every breeze.
He does not scorn it, who has long endured
A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.
Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed
With acrid salts: his very heart athirst
To gaze at Nature in her green array,
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd
With visions prompted by intense desire:
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find-
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more

The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns;
The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown,
And sullen sadness that o'ershade, distort,
And mar the face of beauty, when no cause
For such immeasurable woe appears,
These Flora banishes, and gives the fair [own.
Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her
It is the constant revolution, stale
And tasteless, of the same repeated joys,
That palls and satiates, and makes languid life
A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down.
Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart
Recoils from its own choice-at the full feast
Is famish'd-finds no music in the song,
No smartness in the jest; and wonders why.
Yet thousands still desire to journey on,
Though halt and weary of the path they tread
The paralytic, who can hold her cards.
But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand
To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort
Her mingled suits and sequences; and sits,
Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad
And silent cipher, while her proxy plays.
Others are dragg'd into the crowded room,
Between supporters; and, once seated, sit,
Through downright inability to rise,
Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again.
These speak a loud memento. Yet e'en these

Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he
That overhangs a torrent to a twig.

They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die,
Yet scorn the purposes for which they live.
Then wherefore not renounce them? No-the
The slavish dread of solitude that breeds [dread,
Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame,
And their inveterate habits, all forbid. [long
Whom call we gay? That honor has been
The boast of mere pretenders to the name.
The innocent are gay-the lark is gay,
That dries his feathers, saturate with dew,
Beneath the rosy clouds, while yet the beams
Of dayspring overshoot his humble nest.
The peasant too, a witness of his
song,
Himself a songster, is as gay as he.
But save me from the gayety of those
Whose head-aches nail them to a noon-day bed;
And save me too from theirs whose haggard eyes
Flash desperation, and betray their pangs
For property stripp'd off by cruel chance;
From gayety that fills the bones with pain,
The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe.
The earth was made so various, that the mind
Of desultory man, studious of change,
And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
Prospects, however lovely, may be seen
Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight,
Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off
Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes.
Then snug inclosures in the shelter'd vale,
Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,
Delight us; happy to renounce awhile,

Not senseless of its charms, what still we love,
That such short absence may endear it more.
Then forests, or the savage rock, may please,
That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts
Above the reach of man. His hoary head,
Conspicuous may a league, the mariner,
Bound homeward, and in hope already there,
Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist
A girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows,
And at his feet the baffled billows die.
The common, overgrown with fern, and rough
With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd,
And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom,
And decks itself with ornaments of gold,
Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf
Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs
And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense
With luxury of unexpected sweets.

There often wanders one, whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd
With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound.
A serving maid was she, and fell in love
With one who left her, went to sea, and died.
Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves
To distant shores; and she would sit and weep
At what a sailor suffers; fancy too,
Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know.
She heard the doleful tidings of his death-
And never smiled again! and now she roams
The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,
And there, unless when charity forbids,
The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown
More tatter'd still; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,
And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,

Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier
clothes,
[crazed'
Though pinch'd with cold, asks never.-Katc is
I see a column of slow-rising smoke
O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild.
A vagabond and useless tribe there eat
Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung
Between two poles upon a stick transverse,
Receives the morsel-flesh obscene of dog
Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'd
From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race
They pick their fuel out of every hedge.
Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un-
quench'd

The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide
Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin,
The vellum of the pedigree they claim.
Great skill have they in palmistry, and more
To conjure clean away the gold they touch,
Conveying worthless dross into its place;
Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.
Strange! that a creature rational, and cast
In human mould, should brutalize by choice
His nature; and, though capable of arts.
By which the world might profit. and himself,
Self-banish'd from society, prefer

Such squalid sloth to honorable toil!
Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft
They swathe the forehead, drag the limping liab
And vex their flesh with artificial sores,
Can change their whine into a mirthful note
When safe occasion offers; and with dance,
And music of the bladder and the bag,
Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound
Such health and gayety of heart enjoy
The houseless rovers of the sylvan world (much,
And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering
Need other physic none to heal the effects
Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.

Blest he, though undistinguish'd from the crowd
By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure,
Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside
His fierceness, having learnt though slow to learn,
The manners and the arts of civil life.
His wants indeed are many; but supply
Is obvious, placed within the easy
reach
Of temperate wishes and industrious hands.
Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil;
Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns,
And terrible to sight, as when she springs
(If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote
And barbarous climes, where violence prevails,
And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind,
By culture tam'd, by liberty refresh'd,
And all her fruits by radiant truth matured.
War and the chase engross the savage whole,
War follow'd for revenge, or to supplant
The envied tenants of some happier spot:
The chase for sustenance, precarious trust!
His hard condition with severe constraint
Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth
Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns
Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate,
Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside,
Thus fare the shivering natives of the north,
And thus the rangers of the western world,
Where it advances far into the deep,
Towards the antarctic. E'en the favor'd isles,
So lately found, although the constant sun
Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile,
Can boast but little virtue; and, inert
Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain