Each fun arifes fresh with fweet content,
And leads them on a course of new delight; With the fame joy the fummer's day is spent,
And o'er a cheerful fire their winter night. Such are their joys who spend their lives aright: Tho' seasons change, no sense of change they know, But with an equal eye view all things here below.
When th' amorous earth is woo'd with smiling weather,
To wear the verdant mantle of the spring;
Forth walk the little family together
To fee the wood, and hear its natives fing; The flow'rs fweet odours to their senses bring: The world appears in bloffom, far and near Joyful they view the purple promife of the year.
Summer beholds the good man near his bride,
In fweet contentment fmoaking in his chair;
He views the flocks nibbling the mountain's fide,
And ev'ry tenth he reckons to his share.
Now to the hay field walk the happy pair,
And with fuch kindness
the greet country folk, The parfon's bush is plac'd upon the biggest cock.
The promis'd fruit now fills the teeming foil,
And certain plenty all his doubts relieves ;
The peach he planted pays his honest toil,
The farmer brings him home his yellow fheaves,
And his stuff'd barn the willing tax receives.
His fervants to his loaded orchards hye,
To lay in liquid ftores for future jollity.
When icy bands the stiffened wave enfold,
Still is the parfon with contentment crown'd;
The cheerful blaze chaces the chilly cold,
In circling cups all winter thoughts are drown'd,
And no ill nature fends the laugh around;
Or he, in study pent, thinks what to say,
May touch, yet not offend the fquire next fabbath day.
Thus, ftill in age the fame, he journeys on,
Till envious Fate o'ertake him on the road;
For the calm pleafures of the holy man
Claim not the madness of a youthful blood.
For many winters thus ferenely ftood,
Strong in its smooth decline, the sturdy oak,
Till came from heav'n th' unfear'd and unresisted stroke.
S Bathian Venus t'other day
Invited all the Gods to tea,
Her maids of honour, the mifs Graces,'
Attending duely in their places,
Their godfhips gave a loose to mirth,
As we at Butt'ring's here on earth.
Minerva in her ufual way
Rallied the daughter of the sea.
Madam, faid fhe, your lov'd resort,
The city where you hold your court,
Is lately fallen from its duty,
And triumphs more in wit than beauty;
For here, fhe cried; fee here a poem
'Tis Dalfton's; you, Apollo, know him. Little perfuafion fure invites
Pallas to read what Dalfton writes:
Nay, I have heard that in Parnaffus
For truth a current whisper passes,
That Dalfton fometimes has been known
To publish her works as his own.
Minerva read, and every God
Approv'd-Jove gave the critic nod:
Apollo and the facred Nine
Were charm'd, and fmil'd at ev'ry line;
And Mars, who little understood,
Swore, d―n him, if it was not good.
Venus alone fat all the while
Silent, nor deign'd a single smile.
All were furpriz'd: fome thought her ftupid:
Not fo her confident 'fquire Cupid;
For well the little rogue difcern'd
At what his mother was concern'd,
Yet not a word the urchin faid,
But hid in Hebe's lap his head.
At length the rifing choler broke
From Venus' lips,-
and thus fhe spoke.
That poetry fo cram'd with wit,
Minerva, fhou'd your palate hit,
I wonder not, nor that fome prudes
(For fuch there are above the clouds)
Shou'd wish the prize of beauty torn
From her they view with envious fcorn.
Me poets never please, but when
Juftice and truth direct their pen.
This Dalton-formerly I've known him;
Henceforth for ever I difown him;
For Homer's wit fhall I defpife
In him who writes with Homer's eyes.
poem on the fairest fair
At Bath, and Betty's name not there!
Hath not this poet seen those glances
In which my wicked urchin dances?
Nor that dear dimple, where he treats
Himself with all Arabia's fweets;
In whofe foft down while he repofes
In vain the lillies bloom, or roses,
To tempt him from a fweeter bed
Of fairer white or livelier red?
Hath he not feen, when fome kind gale
Has blown afide the cambric veil,
That feat of paradife, where Jove
Might pamper his almighty love?
Our milky way lefs fair does fhew:
There fummer's feen 'twixt hills of fnow.
From her lov'd voice whene'er she speaks,
What softness in each accent breaks!
And when her dimpled smiles arise,
What sweetness sparkles in her eyes!
Can I then bear, enrag'd fhe faid,
Slights offer'd to my fav'rite maid,
The nymph whom I decreed to be
The representative of me?
The Geddefs ceas'd-the Gods all bow'd,
Nor one the wicked bard avow'd,
Who, while in beauty's praife he writ,
Dar'd Beauty's Goddess to omit :
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