OR WITH ILL-FASHIOND HOOK
TO DRAW THINCAUTIOUS MINNOW FROM THE BROOK,
ARE LIFE'S PRIME PLEASURES IN HIS SIMPLE VIEW_
LONDON, PUBLISHED JUNE 1.1810, BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY.
What early philosophic hours he keeps,
How regular his meals, how sound he sleeps! 430
Not sounder he, that on the mainmast head,
While morning kindles with a windy red,
Begins a long look out for distant land,
Nor quits till ev'ning watch his giddy stand,
Then, swift descending with a seaman's haste,
Slips to his hammock, and forgets the blast.
He chooses company, but not the squire's,
Whose wit is rudeness, whose good breeding tires;
Nor yet the parson's, who would gladly come,
Obsequious when abroad, though proud at home;
Nor can he much affect the neighb'ring peer, 441
Whose toe of emulation treads too near;
But wisely seeks a more convenient friend,
With whom dismissing forms he may unbend!
A man, whom marks of condescending grace
Teach, while they flatter him, his proper place;
Who comes when call'd, and at a word withdraws,
Speaks with reserve, and listens with applause;
Some plain mechanic, who, whithout pretence
To birth or wit, nor gives nor takes offence;
On whom he rests well-pleas'd his weary pow'rs,
And talks and laughs away his vacant hours.
The tide of life, swift always in it's course,
May run in cities with a brisker force,
But no where with a current so serene,
Or half so clear, as in the rural scene.
Yet how fallacious is all earthly bliss,
What obvious truths the wisest heads may miss;
Some pleasures live a month, and some a year,
But short the date of all we gather here;
No happiness is felt, except the true,
That does not charm the more for being new.
This observation, as it chanc'd, not made,
Or if the thought occurr'd, not duly weigh'd,
He sighs--for after all by slow degrees
spot he lov'd has lost the pow'r to please; To cross his ambling pony day by day, Seems at the best but dreaming life away;
The prospect, such as might enchant despair,
He views it not, or sees no beauty there;
With aching heart, and discontented looks,
Returns at noon to billiards or to books,
But feels, while grasping at his faded joys,
A secret thirst of his renounc'd employs.
He chides the tardiness of ev'ry post,
Pants to be told of battles won or lost,
Blames his own indolence, observes, though late,
'Tis criminal to leave a sinking state,
Flies to the levee, and, receiv'd with grace,
Kneels, kisses hands, and shines again in place.
Suburban villas, highway-side retreats,
That dread th'encroachment of our growing streets;
Fight boxes neatly sash'd, and in a blaze
With all a July sun's collected rays,
Delight the citizen, who, gasping there,
Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air. O sweet retirement, who would balk the thought, That could afford retirement, or could not?
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