Thy juster lays the lucid wave surpass;
The living scene is in the Muse's glass.
Nor sweeter notes the ecchoing Forests chear,
When Philomela sits and warbles there,
Than when you sing the greens, and opening glades,
And give us Harmony as well as Shades.
A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you
Can paint the grove, and add the Music too.
With vast variety thy pages shine;
A new creation starts in ev'ry line.
How sudden trees rise to the reader's sight,
And make a doubtful scene of shade and light,
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what sweet confusion reigns,
In dreary deserts mix'd with painted plains!
And see! the deserts cast a pleasing gloom;
And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom:
Whilst fruitful crops rise by their barren side,
And bearded groves display their annual pride.
Happy the man, who strings his tuneful lyre,
Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire!
Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell
Amidst the rural joys you sing so well.
I in a cold, and in a barren clime,
Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhime,
Here on the Western beach attempt to chime!
O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main!
Border'd with weeds, and solitudes obscene!
Let me ne'er flow like thee! nor make thy stream
My sad example, or my wretched theme.
Like bombast now thy raging billows roar,
And vainly dash themselves against the shore:
The living scene is in the Muse's glass.
Nor sweeter notes the ecchoing Forests chear,
When Philomela sits and warbles there,
Than when you sing the greens, and opening glades,
And give us Harmony as well as Shades.
A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you
Can paint the grove, and add the Music too.
With vast variety thy pages shine;
A new creation starts in ev'ry line.
How sudden trees rise to the reader's sight,
And make a doubtful scene of shade and light,
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what sweet confusion reigns,
In dreary deserts mix'd with painted plains!
And see! the deserts cast a pleasing gloom;
And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom:
Whilst fruitful crops rise by their barren side,
And bearded groves display their annual pride.
Happy the man, who strings his tuneful lyre,
Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire!
Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell
Amidst the rural joys you sing so well.
I in a cold, and in a barren clime,
Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhime,
Here on the Western beach attempt to chime!
O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main!
Border'd with weeds, and solitudes obscene!
Let me ne'er flow like thee! nor make thy stream
My sad example, or my wretched theme.
Like bombast now thy raging billows roar,
And vainly dash themselves against the shore:
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