When, through new channels failing, we shall clothe
The Californian coaft, and all the realms
That stretch from Anian's ftreights to proud Japan;
And the green ifles, which on the left arife
Upon the glaffy brine, whose various capes
Not yet are figur'd on the failors chart:
Then every variation fhall be told
Of the magnetic fteel; and currents mark'd,
Which drive the heedless veffel from her course.
That portion too of land, a tract immense,
Beneath th' Antarctic spread, shall then be known,
And new plantations on its coaft arife.
Then rigid Winter's ice no more shall wound
The only naked animal; but man
With the foft fleece fhall every-where be cloath'd.
Th' exulting Muse shall then, in vigor fresh,
Her flight renew. Mean-while, with weary wing,
O'er Ocean's wave returning, she explores
Siluria's flowery vales, her old delight,
The shepherd's haunts, where the first springs arik
Of Britain's happy trade, now spreading wide,
Wide as th' Atlantic and Pacific feas,
Or as air's vital fluid o'er the globe.
THE COUNTRY WALK.
THE morning's fair, the lusty fun
With ruddy cheek begins to run; And early birds, that wing the skies, Sweetly fing to fee him rife.
I am refolv'd, this charming day,
In the open field to ftray;
And have no roof above my head,
But that whereon the gods do tread.
Before the yellow barn I fee
A beautiful variety
Of ftrutting cocks, advancing ftout,
And flirting empty chaff about.
Hens, ducks, and geefe, and all their brood,
And turkeys gobbling for their food;
While ruftics thrash the wealthy floor,
And tempt all to crowd the door.
What a fair face does Nature fhow?
Augufta, wipe thy dufty brow;
A landskip wide falutes my fight,
Of fhady vales, and mountains bright;
And azure heavens I behold,
And clouds of filver and of gold.
And now into the fields I go,
Where thoufand flaming flowers glow;
And every neighbouring hedge I grect,
With honey-fuckles finelling fweet.
Now o'er the daify meads I stray,
And meet with, as I pace my way,
K
Sweetly fhining on the eye,
A rivulet gliding smoothly by;
Which fhews with what an eafy tide
The moments of the happy glide.
Here, finding pleasure after pain,
Sleeping, I fee a wearied fwain,
While his full fcrip lies open by,
That does his healthy food fupply.
Happy fwain, fure happier far
Than lofty kings and princes are!
Enjoy fweet fleep, which fhuns the crown,
With all its eafy beds of down.
The fun now shows his noon-tide blaze,
And sheds around me burning rays.
A little onward, and I go
Into the fhade that groves beftow;
And on green mofs I lay me down,
That o'er the root of oak has grown;
Where all is filent, but fome flood
That fweetly murmurs in the wood;
But birds that warble in the sprays,
And charm ev'n Silence with her lays.
Oh powerful Silence, how you reign
In the Poet's busy brain!
His numerous thoughts obey the calls
Of the tuneful water-falls,
Like moles, whene'er the coaft is clear,
They rife before thee without fear,
And range in parties here and there.
Some wildly to Parnassus wing,
And view the fair Caftalian fpring;
Where they behold a lonely well,
Where now no tuneful Mufes dwell;
But now and then a flavish hind
Paddling the troubled pool they find.
Some trace the pleafing paths of joy,
Others the blissful fcene deftroy;
In thorny tracks of forrow stray,
And pine for Clio far away.
But ftay-Methinks her lays I hear,
So fmooth! fo fweet! fo deep! fo clear!
No, 'tis not her voice I find,
'Tis but the echo stays behind.
Some meditate ambition 's brow,
And the black gulph that gapes below:
Some peep in courts, and there they fee
The fneaking tribe of Flattery.
But, ftriking to the ear and eye,
A nimble deer comes bounding by!
When rushing from yon rustling fpray,
It made them vanish all away.
I rouze me up, and on I rove,
'Tis more than time to leave the grove.
The fun declines, the evening breeze
Begins to whifper through the trees;
And, as I leave the fylvan gloom,
As to the glare of day I come,
An old man's fmoky neft I fee,
Leaning on an aged tree ;
Whofe willow walls, and furzy brow,
A little garden fway below.
Through spreading beds of blooming green,
Matted with herbage fweet, and clean,
A vein of water limps along,
And makes them ever green, and young.
Here he puffs upon his fpade,
And digs up cabbage in the fhade:
His tatter'd rags are fable brown,
His beard and hair are hoary grown:
The dying fap defcends apace,
And leaves a wither'd hand and face.
Up Grongar hill I labour now,
And catch at last his bushy brow.
Oh, how fresh, how pure the air!
Let me breathe a little here.
Where am I, Nature? I defcry
Thy magazine before me lie!
Temples!-and towns!-and towers! -and woods!
And hills!-and vales! -and fields !-and floods!
Crouding before me, edg'd around
With naked wilds, and barren ground.
See, below, the pleasant dome,
The Poet's pride, the Poet's home,
Which the fun-beams fhine upon,
To the even, from the dawn.
See her woods, where Echo talks,
Her gardens trim, her terras walks,
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