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His wrath is bufy and his frown is felt.
The rocks fall headlong and the vallies rife,
The rivers die into offenfive pools,
And, charged with putrid verdure, breathe a grofs And mortal nuifance into all the air. What folid was, by transformation strange Grows fluid, and the fixt and rooted earth Tormented into billows heaves and fwells, Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl Sucks down its prey infatiable. Immenfe The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs And agonies of human and of brute Multitudes, fugitive on every fide, And fugitive in vain. The fylvan fcene Migrates uplifted, and with all its foil Alighting in far diftant fields, finds out A new poffeffor, and furvives the change. Ocean has caught the frenzy, and upwrought To an enormous and o'erbearing height, Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore Refiftlefs. Never fuch a fudden flood, Upridged fo high, and fent on such a charge, Poffefs'd an inland fcene. Where now the throng That prefs'd the beach, and hafty to depart, Look'd to the fea for fafety? They are gone, Gone with the refluent wave into the deep, A prince with half his people. Ancient tow'rs, And roofs embattled high, the gloomy fcenes Where beauty oft and letter'd worth consume Life in the unproductive fhades of death, Fall prone; the pale inhabitants come forth, And, happy in their unforeseen release From all the rigors of reftraint, enjoy The terrors of the day that fets them free. Who then that has thee, would not hold thee fast. Freedom! whom they that lofe thee fo regret, That ev'n a judgment making way for thee, Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy fake.
DOMESTIC LIFE in the COUNTRY.
[From the fame Poem.]
H friendly to the beft purfuits of man,
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace,
Domeftic life, in rural leifure pafs'd!
Few know thy value, and few taße thy fweets,
Though many boat thy favours, and affect
To understand and chrufe thee for their own.
But foolish man foregoes his proper blifs
Ev'n as his first progenitor, and quits,
Though placed in paradife (for earth has ftill
Some traces of her youthful beauty left)
Subftantial happinefs for tranfient joy.
Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse
The growing feeds of wifdom; that fuggeft,
By ev'ry pleafing image they prefent,
Reflections fuch as meliorate the heart,
Compofe the paffions, and exalt the mind;
Scenes fuch as thefe, 'tis his fupreme delight
To fill with riot and defile with blood.
Should fome contagion kind to the poor brutes
We perfecute, annihilate the tribes"
That draw the sportsman over hill and dale
Fearless, and rapt away from all his cares;
Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again,
Nor baited hook deceive the fishes eye;
Could pageantry, and dance, and feast and fong
Be quell'd in all our fummer-month retreats;
How many felf-deiuded nymphs and swains,
Who dream they have a tafle for fields and groves,
Would find them hideous nurs'ries of the ipleen,
And crowd the roads, impatient for the town!
They love the country, and none elfe, who feek
For their own fake its filence and its flade.
Delights which who would leave, that has a heart
Sufceptible of pity, or a mind
Cultured and capable of fober thought,
For all the favage din of the fwift pack
And clamours of the field? detefted fport,
That owes its pleasures to another's pain,
That feeds upon the fobs and dying fhrieks
Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued
With eloquence that agonies infpire
Of filent tears and heart-diftending fighs!
Vain tears, alas! and fighs that never find
A correfponding tone in jovial fouls.
Well-one at leaft is fafe. One fhelter'd hare
Has never heard the fanguinary yell
Of cruel man, exulting in her woes.
Innocent partner of my peaceful home,
Whom ten long years experience of my care
Has made at laft familiar, fhe has loft
Much of her vigilant inftinctive dread,
Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.
Yes-thou mayeft eat thy bread, and lick the hand
That feeds thee; thou may'ft frolic on the floor
At evening, and at night retire fecure
To thy ftraw couch, and flumber unalarm'd.
For I have gain'd thy confidence, have pledg'd
All that is human in me, to protect
Thine unfufpecting gratitude and love.
If I furvive thee I will dig thy grave,
And when I place thee in it, fighing fay,
I knew at least one hare that had a friend.
How various his employments, whom the world Calls idle, and who justly in return Efteems that bufy world an idler too! Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoyed at home, And nature in her cultivated trim Dreffed to his tate, inviting him abroadCan he want occupation who has these? Will he be idle who has much t'enjoy? Me, therefore, ftudious of laborious ease, Not flothful; happy to deceive the time, Not waste it; and aware that human life Is but a loan to be repaid with use, When he shall call his debtors to account, From whom are all our bleffings, bus'nefs finds Ev'n here. While fedulous I feek t'improve, At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd, The mind he gave me; driving it, though flack Too oft, and much impeded in its work By caufes not to be divulg'd in vain, To its just point the service of mankind.. He that attends to his interior felf,
That has a heart and keeps it has a mind
That hungers, and fupplies it; and who feeks
A focial, not a diffipated life,
Has bufinefs. Feels himself engag'd t' atchieve
No unimportant, though a filent task.
A life all turbulence and noife, may feem
To him that leads it, wife and to be prais'd;
But wifdom is a pearl with most fuccefs
Sought in ftill water, and beneath clear skies,
He that is ever occupied in ftorms,
Or dives not for it, or brings up instead,
Vainly industrious, a difgraceful prize.
The morning finds the felf-fequefter'd man Fresh for his talk, intend what task he may. Whether inclement feasons recommend His warm but fimple home, where he enjoys With her who fhares his pleafures and his heart, Sweet converfe, fipping calm the fragrant lymph Which neatly the prepares; then to his book Well chofen, and not fullenly perufed In felfish filence, but imparted oft
As ought occurs that he may fmile to hear,
Or turn to nourishment, digefted well.
Or if the garden with its many cares,
All well repay'd, demand him, he attends
The welcome call, confcious how much the hand
Of lubbard labor needs his watchful eye,
Oft loit'ring lazily if not o'erfeen,
Or mifapplying bis unfkilful firength.
Nor does he govern only or direct,
But much performs himself. No works indeed
That afk robuft tough finews bred to toil,
Servile employ-but fuch as may amuse,
Not tire, demanding rather skill than force.
Proud of his well-fpread walls, he views his trees
That meet (no barren interval between)
With pleasure more than ev'n their fruits afford,
Which, fave himself who trains them, none can feet.
These therefore are his own peculiar charge,
No meaner hand may discipline the shoots,
None but his steel approach them. What is weak,
Distemper'd, or has loft prolific pow'rs
Impair'd by age, his unrelenting hand
Dooms to the knife. Nor does he spare the soft
And fucculent that feeds its giant growth
But barren, at th' expence of neighb'ring twigs
Lefs oftentatious, and yet ftudded thick
With hopeful gems. The reft, no portion left
That may difgrace his art, or disappoint
Large expectation, he difpofes neat
At meafur'd diftances, that air and fun
Admitted freely may afford their aid,
And ventilate and warm the fwelling buds.
Hence fummer has her riches, autumn hence,
And hence ev'n winter fills his wither'd hand
With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own.
Fair recompenfe of labour well beftow'd
And wife precaution, which a clime so rude
Makes needful still, whose spring is but the child
Of churlish winter, in her froward moods
Difcov'ring much the temper of her fire.
For oft, as if in her the stream of mild
Maternal nature had revers'd its course,
She brings her infants forth with many fmiles,
But once deliver'd, kills them with a frown.
He, therefore, timely warm'd, himself supplies
Her want of care, fcreening and keeping warm
The plenteous bloom, that no rough blaft may fweep
His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft
As the fun peeps and vernal airs breathe mild,
The fence withdrawn, he gives them ev'ry beam,
And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day.
MORNING, or the COMPLAINT. An American Eclogue.
[By the Rev. Mr. GREGORY.]
AR from the favage bandit's fierce alarms,
Or diftant din of horrid defpot's arms,
Tho' Pennfylvania boasts her peaceful plain,
Yet there in blood her petty tyrants reign.
With waving pines tho' vocal woods be crown'd,
And stream-fed vales with living wealth abound,.
To golden fields tho' rip'ning rays defcend,
With blufhing fruit tho' loaded branches bend;
To those who ne'er must freedom's bleffings tafte,
'Tis barren all, 'tis all a worthless waste.
While hoarfe the cataract murmur'd on the gale,
And chilling dews fwept through the murky dale;
Along the hills the difmal tempeft howl'd,'
And lightnings flash'd, and deep the thunder roll'd;
Beneath a leaflefs tree, ere morn arose,
The flave Adala thus laments his woes:
Ye grifly spectres, gather round my feat,
From caves unbleft, that wretches groans repeat!
Terrific forms, from mifty lakes arife!
And bloody meteors threaten thro' the skies!
Oh curs'd destroyers of our hapless race,
Of human kind the terror and difgrace!
Lo! hots of dufky captives, to my view,
Demand a deep revenge! demand their due!
And frowning chiefs now dart athwart the gloom,
And o'er the falt fea wave pronounce your doom,-
But Gods are juft, and oft the stroke forbear,
To plunge the guilty in tenfold defpair.
Lift high the fcourge, my foul the rack difdains ;
I pant for freedom and my native plains!
With limbs benumb'd my poor companions lie;
Opprefs'd by pain and want the aged figh;
Thro' reedy huts the driving tempeft pours,
Their feftering wounds receive the fickly fhowr's;
In mad'ning draughts our lords their fenfes steep,
And doom their flaves to ftripes and death in fleep:
Now, while the bitter blaft furrounds my head,
To times long paft my rettlefs foul is led,
Far, far beyond the azure hills, to groves
Of ruddy fruit, where beauty fearless roves-
O blifsful feats! O felf-approving joys!
Nature's plain dictates! ignorance of vice!
O guiltless hours! Our cares and wants were few,
No arts of luxury, or deceit we knew.
Our labour, fport to tend, our cottage care,..
Or from the palm the lufcious juice prepare;