Hills and dales no more are seen In their dress of pleasing green; Summer’s robes are all thrown by, For the clothing of the sky; Snows on snows in heaps combine, Hillocks, rais’d as mountains, shine, And at distance rising proud, Each appears a fleecy cloud. Plenty! now thy gifts bestow; Exit bid to every woe: Take me in, shut out the blast, Make the doors and windows fast; Place me in some corner, where, Lolling in an elbow chair, Happy, blest to my desire, I may find a rouzing fire; While in chimney-corner nigh, Coal or wood, a fresh supply, Ready stands for laying on, Soon as t’other’s burnt and gone. Now and then, as taste decreed In a book a page I’d read; And, inquiry to amuse, Peep at something in the news; See who’s married, and who’s dead, And who, through bankrupt, beg their bread: While on hob, or table nigh, Just to drink before I’m dry, A pitcher at my side should stand, With the barrel nigh at hand, Always ready as I will’d, When ’twas empty, to be fill’d; And, to be possess’d of all, A corner cupboard in the wall, With store of victuals lin’d complete, That when hungry I might eat. Then would I, in Plenty’s lap, For the first time take a nap; Falling back in easy lair, Sweetly slumbering in my chair; With no reflective thoughts to wake Pains that cause my heart to ache, Of contracted debts, long made, In no prospect to be paid; And, to Want, sad news severe, Of provisions getting dear: While the Winter, shocking sight, Constant freezes day and night, Deep and deeper falls the snow, Labour’s slack, and wages low. These, and more, the poor can tell, Known, alas, by them too well, Plenty! oh, if blest by thee, Never more should trouble me. Hours and weeks will sweetly glide, Soft and smooth as flows the tide, Where no stones or choaking grass Force a curve ere it can pass: And as happy, and as blest, As beasts drop them down to rest, When in pastures, at their will, They have roam’d and eat their fill; Soft as nights in summer creep, So should I then fall asleep; While sweet visions of delight, So enchanting to the sight, Sweetly swimming o’er my eyes, Would sink me into extacies. Nor would pleasure’s dream once more, As they oft have done before, Cause be to create a pain, When I woke, to find them vain: Bitter past, the present sweet, Would my happiness complete. Oh; how easy should I lie, With the fire up-blazing high, (Summer’s artificial bloom,) That like an oven keeps the room, Or lovely May, as mild and warm: While, without, the raging storm Is roaring in the chimney-top, In no likelihood to drop; And the witchen-branches nigh, O’er my snug box towering high,