35
And herbs of potent smell and pungent taste,
Give a warm relish to the Night's repast.
Apples and Cherries grafted by his hand,
And cluster'd Nuts, for neighbouring market stand.
Nor thus concludes his labour; near the cot,
The Reed-fence rises round some favourite spot;
Where rich Carnations, Pinks with purple eyes,
Proud Hyacinths, the least some Florist's prize,
Tulips tall-stemm'd, and pounc'd Auriculars rise.
Here on a Sunday-eve, when service ends,
Meet and rejoice, a Family of Friends;
All speak aloud, are happy, and are free,
And glad they seem and gaily they agree.
What, though fastidious ears may shun the speech,
Where all are talkers and where none can teach;
Where still the welcome and the words are old,
And the same stories are for ever told;
Yet their's is joy that, bursting from the heart,
Prompts the glad tongue these nothings to impart;
That forms these tones of gladness we despise,
That lifts their steps, that sparkles in their eyes;
That talks, or laughs, or runs, or shouts, or plays,
And speaks in all their looks and all their ways.
Fair scenes of peace! ye might detain us long,
But Vice and Misery now demand the song;
And turn our view from dwellings simply neat,
To this infected Row, we term our Street.
Here, in cabal, a disputatious crew,
Each evening meet; the Sot, the Cheat, the Shrew;
Give a warm relish to the Night's repast.
Apples and Cherries grafted by his hand,
And cluster'd Nuts, for neighbouring market stand.
Nor thus concludes his labour; near the cot,
The Reed-fence rises round some favourite spot;
Where rich Carnations, Pinks with purple eyes,
Proud Hyacinths, the least some Florist's prize,
Tulips tall-stemm'd, and pounc'd Auriculars rise.
Here on a Sunday-eve, when service ends,
Meet and rejoice, a Family of Friends;
All speak aloud, are happy, and are free,
And glad they seem and gaily they agree.
What, though fastidious ears may shun the speech,
Where all are talkers and where none can teach;
Where still the welcome and the words are old,
And the same stories are for ever told;
Yet their's is joy that, bursting from the heart,
Prompts the glad tongue these nothings to impart;
That forms these tones of gladness we despise,
That lifts their steps, that sparkles in their eyes;
That talks, or laughs, or runs, or shouts, or plays,
And speaks in all their looks and all their ways.
Fair scenes of peace! ye might detain us long,
But Vice and Misery now demand the song;
And turn our view from dwellings simply neat,
To this infected Row, we term our Street.
Here, in cabal, a disputatious crew,
Each evening meet; the Sot, the Cheat, the Shrew;
