Fair promis'd sunbeams of terrestrial bliss, Health's gallant hopes,... and are ye sunk to this? For in life's road though thorns abundant grow, There still are joys poor Poll can never know; Joys which the gay companions of her prime Sip, as they drift along the stream of time; At eve to hear beside their tranquil home The lifted latch, that speaks the lover come: _That_ love matur'd, next playful on the knee To press the velvet lip of infancy; To stay the tottering step, the features trace;... Inestimable sweets of social peace!
O THOU, who bidst the vernal juices rise! Thou, on whose blasts autumnal foliage flies! Let Peace ne'er leave me, nor my heart grow cold, Whilst life and sanity are mine to hold.
Shorn of their flow'rs that shed th' untreasur'd seed, The withering pasture, and the fading mead, Less tempting grown, diminish more and more, The dairy's pride; sweet Summer's flowing store. New cares succeed, and gentle duties press, Where the fire-side, a school of tenderness, Revives the languid chirp, and warms the blood Of cold-nipt weaklings of the latter brood, That from the shell just bursting into day, Through yard or pond pursue their vent'rous way.
Far weightier cares and wider scenes expand; What devastation marks the new-sown land! "From hungry woodland foes go, _Giles_, and guard The rising wheat; ensure its great reward: A future sustenance, a Summer's pride, Demand thy vigilance: then be it try'd: Exert thy voice, and wield thy shotless gun: Go, tarry there from morn till setting sun."
Keen blows the blast, or ceaseless rain descends; The half-stript hedge a sorry shelter lends. O for a HOVEL, e'er so small or low, Whose roof, repelling winds and early snow, Might bring home's comforts fresh before his eyes! No sooner thought, than see the structure rise, In some sequester'd nook, embank'd around, Sods for its walls, and straw in burdens bound:
Dried fuel hoarded is his richest store, And circling smoke obscures his little door; Whence creeping forth, to duty's call he yields, And strolls the Crusoe of the lonely fields. On whitethorns tow'ring, and the leafless rose, A frost-nipt feast in bright vermilion glows: Where clust'ring sloes in glossy order rise, He crops the loaded branch; a cumb'rous prize; And o'er the flame the sputt'ring fruit he rests, Placing green sods to seat his coming guests; His guests by promise; playmates young and gay:... BUT AH! _fresh pastimes_ lure their steps away! He sweeps his hearth, and homeward looks in vain, Till feeling _Disappointment's_ cruel pain, His fairy revels are exchang'd for rage, His banquet marr'd, grown dull his hermitage. The field becomes his prison, till on high Benighted birds to shades and coverts fly. Midst air, health, daylight, can he prisoner be? If fields are prisons, where is Liberty? Here still she dwells, and here her votaries stroll; But disappointed hope untunes the soul: Restraints unfelt whilst hours of rapture flow, When troubles press, to chains and barriers grow. Look then from trivial up to greater woes; From the poor bird-boy with his roasted sloes, To where the dungeon'd mourner heaves the sigh; Where not one cheering sun-beam meets his eye. Though ineffectual pity thine may be, No wealth, no pow'r, to set the captive free; Though _only_ to thy ravish'd _sight_ is given The golden path that HOWARD trod to heaven; Thy slights can make the wretched more forlorn, And deeper drive affliction's barbed thorn. Say not, "I'll come and cheer thy gloomy cell With news of dearest friends; how good, how well: I'll be a joyful herald to thine heart:" Then fail, and play the worthless trifler's part, To sip flat pleasures from thy glass's brim, And waste the precious hour that's due to him. In mercy spare the base unmanly blow: Where can he turn, to whom complain of you? Back to past joys in vain his thoughts may stray; Trace and retrace the beaten worn-out way, The rankling injury will pierce his breast, And curses on thee break his midnight rest.