Its treasuries of snow and hail pours forth;

Then stormy winds blow through the hazy sky, In desolation nature seems to lie;

The unstain'd snow from the full clouds descends,
Whose sparkling lustre open eyes offends.

In maiden white the glittering fields do shine;
Then bleating flocks for want of food repine,
With wither'd eyes they see all snow around,
And with their fore feet paw and scrape the ground:
They cheerfully crop the insipid grass,
The shepherds sighing, cry, Alas! alas!

Then pinching want the wildest beast does tame;
Then huntsmen on the snow do trace their game;
Keen frost then turns the liquid lakes to glass,
Arrests the dancing rivulets as they pass.

How sweet and innocent are country sports, And, as men's tempers, various are their sorts. You, on the banks of soft meandering Tweed, May in your toils ensnare the watery breed, And nicely lead the artificial flee,* Which, when the nimble, watchful trout does see, He at the bearded hook will briskly spring; Then in that instant twieth your hairy string, And, when he's hook'd, you, with a constant hand, May draw him struggling to the fatal land.

Then at fit seasons you may clothe your hook With a sweet bait, dress'd by a faithless cook; The greedy pike darts to 't with eager haste,

* Anglice, fly.

And being struck, in vain he flies at last;

He rages, storms, and flounces through the stream, But all, alas! his life cannot redeem.

At other times you may pursue the chase,
And hunt the nimble hare from place to place.
See, when the dog is just upon the grip,
Out at a side she 'll make a handsome skip,
And ere he can divert his furious course,
She, far before him, scours with all her force:
She'll shift, and many times run the same ground;
At last, outwearied by the stronger hound,
She falls a sacrifice unto his hate,

And with sad piteous screams laments her fate.
See how the hawk doth take his towering flight,
And in his course outflies our very sight,
Bears down the fluttering fowl with all his might.
See how the wary gunner casts about,
Watching the fittest posture when to shoot:
Quick as the fatal lightning blasts the oak,
He gives the springing fowl a sudden stroke;
He pours upon 't a shower of mortal lead,
And ere the noise is heard the fowl is dead.

Sometimes he spreads his hidden subtile snare, Of which the entangled fowl was not aware; Through pathless wastes he doth pursue his sport, Where nought but moor-fowl and wild beasts resort.

When the noon sun directly darts his beams Upon your giddy heads, with fiery gleams, Then you may bathe yourself in cooling streams; Or to the sweet adjoining grove retire,

Where trees with interwoven boughs conspire
To form a grateful shade; - there rural swains
Do tune their oaten reeds to rural strains;
The silent birds sit listening on the sprays,
And in soft charming notes do imitate their lays.
There you may stretch yourself upon the grass,
And, lull'd with music, to kind slumbers pass:
No meagre cares your fancy will distract,
And on that scene no tragic fears will act;
Save the dear image of a charming she,
Nought will the object of your vision be.

Away the vicious pleasures of the town;
Let empty partial fortune on me frown;
But grant, ye powers, that it may be my lot
To live in peace from noisy towns remote.

ON EOLUS'S HARP.

ETHEREAL race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.

Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid,
With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart!
Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid,
Who died for love, these sweet complainings part.

But hark! that strain was of a graver tone,

On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; Or he, the sacred Bard,* who sat alone

In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes.

Such was the song which Zion's children sung, When by Euphrates' stream they made their

plaint;

And to such sadly solemn notes are strung
Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint.

Methinks I hear the full celestial choir, Through heaven's high dome their awful an them raise;

Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise.

Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind,

Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string; Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd, For till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.

* Jeremiah.

4

HYMN ON SOLITUDE.

[First printed 1729.]

HAIL, mildly pleasing Solitude,
Companion of the wise and good;
But, from whose holy, piercing eye,
The herd of fools and villains fly.
Oh! how I love with thee to walk,
And listen to thy whisper'd talk,
Which innocence and truth imparts,
And melts the most obdurate hearts.

A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapt in some mysterious dream,
A lone philosopher you seem;
Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky;

A shepherd next, you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain.
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that sweet passion in your face;
Then, calm'd to friendship, you assume
The gentle looking Hertford's bloom,
As, with her Musidora, she

(Her Musidora fond of thee)
Amid the long-withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rival'd nightingale.