Ye gay and sportive votaries of Joy,
Forgive the thoughtless Muse, for she has led me
To talk of pleasing horror, and the bliss
Which melancholy gives; ye cannot form
Amid the circling follies, which urge on
Your laughing hours, perhaps ye cannot form
A notion of these joys, and with a taunt
Of high contempt, despise the wild enthusiasm.
Yet on the well-trod stage have ye not seen
Your Roscius fired by the natural bard,
Immortal Shakespear, wander the bleak heath
A poor and outcast king, nor blame the winds
Whose keen tooth seiz'd his age, nor chide the elements
For their unkindness, while the ruffling storm
Tore the proud garments from his shivering trunk,
And the fierce lightnings fir'd his maddening brain?
Have you not then felt horror? Would ye not
Change your rich pomp for Edgar's naked hovel,
And be the poor king's host? — Have ye not wish'd
To range with Rosaline the forest wild,
Or live beneath the shelter of some oak
With melancholy Jaques? Tell me, why then
Ye look'd on wealth and greatness with a scorn?
Why but because the Muse with native strength
Pour'd truth on Fancy's eye; and yet the Muse
Can only boast in the most warm description
A faint resemblance, nor has she such force
To strike as Nature has. Alas! her voice
But wakes remembrance of our absent bliss;
And when she sings of incense-breathing Spring,
She wafts no odours to the longing sense,
But only prompts our sigh, that we must dwell
Confin'd in the full city, distant far
From every scene of rural innocence,
Whose woods, whose shades, whose storms, or funerals,
Ev'n raise a sense of pleasure. What can then
The brighter views, what can the happy hour
That gives the blushing bride to the true arms
Of faithful Damon? Thenot pleas'd revives
To former youth, and gayest of the day
Provokes the village mirth, and from his soul
Enjoys the spousal of his boy, who scarce
(O'ercome with rapture) can himself conduct
His festival; and but for busy Thenot,
Each due right were neglected, and the guests
Unbidden by the tabor's sprightly sound
To seek the green, and in the jocund dance
Each maiden with her youth breathe sport and joy,
Save the still happier pair: their greater bliss
Fills the whole breast, nor leaves a vacant place
For lighter mirth. Unnotic'd speaks the pipe:
They hear no sound but the endearing voice
Of mutual love: they do not mark the joy
In every face around; for their attention,
Fix'd on each other, watches every glance
Diffused by the lovely languid eye.
Well may all else be unperceiv'd; for who
Observes bright Hesper dart his pointed ray,
When riding high mild Cynthia pours serene
Her steady beam. Oh tell me, when compar'd
To these true raptures, what's the shadowy pomp
And artful splendour, when the golden shackles
Fetter two venal souls, by interest call'd
To prostitute the ever-hallow'd rites
Of holy Hymen? — On the village plain
Nought joins but mutual love; no sordid motive
Promotes unnatural union; but the flame
That first united glows throughout their life
A steady fire, whose unabating light
Gilds Youth with rapture, and with fostering warmth
Chears drooping Age, who smiling sees his offspring
Step forth to claim the joys he celebrates
With annual hospitality, what time
The circling year brings round the happy day
That shower'd down blessings on him, when it gave
To his fond vow the willing Sylvia's charms,
Then blooming young, now hoary, but her heart
Unchang'd by time; for still the same desire
To add to every joy, or fondly soothe
Each woe he feels, reigns unabated there.
His social roof receives each welcome guest,
His open heart diffuses round his pleasure,
And each plain neighbour with unfeigning tongue
Congratulates his bliss. Who would not leave
For these sincere delights, the pageant pomp,
The rich array, the courtly formal speech
Unutter'd by the heart, the birth-day wish
Of venal hirelings, who for interest croud
The glittering levee? Happier (Reason deems
View'd in each light) the simple village life,
Than all that courtiers wish, or kings bestow.
Kings cannot give a boon of so rich price
As are thy smiles, O lovely Health! and thou
Shunning the tumult, to the rural green
Retirest. There, not built by mortal hand,
Stands on the southern slope of the fresh hill
Thy temple, from whose roof the eglantine
And vagrant woodbine hang; and at the porch
Sits thy good priestess Ease, administring
To Exercise (who up the gentle slope
By moderate footing moves) the holy cup
Of Temperance, nymph of the crystal spring
That dwells beneath thy altar; and from thence
Warbling with gentle lapse joins the full stream,
That winding wild delays its silver course
In the rich mead, whose bank the peasant oft
Approaches to allay his thirst, and quaffs
The simple beverage from the limpid fount.
Bright virgin, thee of all the Powers who range
The rural plain, I woo with constant vow
Most ardent! Deign around my temples bind
Thy fragrant wreath, and deck my purpled cheek
With thy rich glow. Then undisturb'd the mind
Musing pursues its holy meditation,
And rapt in trance, can trace a thousand gifts
Shower'd by the gracious hand of Nature's King
To deck the various field. The wondering eye
Roams o'er the fair creation; then to heaven
Unbidden soars; for the full soul imprest
With holy transport, there directs its view
From whence its blessings flow, and the rapt voice
Accordant hymns the grateful song of praise.
The rapid gusts of passion, which or pride,
Or folly, or the thousand varying forms
Of courtly affectation ever raise,
Here all subside, and the composed breast
Expands with love, and to its utmost power
Diffuses blessings to mankind, nor fears
Ingratitude should check, or pride should spurn
The offer'd bounties of the generous heart.