ACCEPT, O EGLINTOUN! the rural lays, That, bound to thee, thy duteous Poet pays! The muse, that oft has rais'd her tuneful strains, A frequent guest on SCOTIA'S blissful plains, That oft has sung, her list'ning youth to move, The charms of beauty and the force of love, Once more resumes the still successful lay, Delighted, thro' the verdant meads to stray. O! come, invok'd, and pleas'd, with Her repair, To breathe the balmy sweets of purer air, In the cool evening negligently laid, Or near the stream, or in the rural shade, Propitious hear, and, as thou hear'st, approve The GENTLE SHEPHERD'S tender tale of love. Instructed from these scenes, what glowing fires Inflame the breast that real love inspires! The fair shall read of ardours, sighs, and tears, All that a lover hopes, and all he fears: Hence, too, what passions in his bosom rise! What dawning gladness sparkles in his eyes! When first the fair one, piteous of his fate, Cur'd of her scorn, and vanquish'd of her hate, With willing mind, is bounteous to relent, And blushing, beauteous, smiles the kind consent! Love's passion here in each extreme is shown, In Charlot's smile, or in Maria's frown. With words like these, that fail'd not to engage, Love courted beauty in a golden age, Pure and untaught, such nature first inspir'd, Ere yet the fair affected phrase desir'd. His secret thoughts were undisguis'd with art, His words ne'er knew to differ from his heart: He speaks his love so artless and sincere, As thy Eliza might be pleas'd to hear. Heaven only to the Rural State bestows Conquest o'er life, and freedom from its woes: Secure alike from Envy and from Care; Nor rais'd by Hope, nor yet depress'd by Fear: Nor Want's lean hand its happiness constrains, Nor Riches torture with ill-gotten gains. No secret Guilt its stedfast peace destroys, No wild Ambition interrupts its joys. Blest still to spend the hours that Heav'n has lent In humble goodness, and in calm content: Serenely gentle, as the thoughts that roll, Sinless and pure, in fair Humeia's soul. But now the Rural State these joys has lost; Even swains no more that innocence can boast: Love speaks no more what beauty may believe, Prone to betray, and practis'd to deceive. Now happiness forsakes her blest retreat, The peaceful dwellings where she fix'd her seat; The pleasing fields she wont of old to grace, Companion to an upright sober race; When on the sunny hill, or verdant plain, Free and familiar with the sons of men, To crown the pleasures of the blameless feast, She uninvited came a welcome guest; Ere yet an age, grown rich in impious arts, Brib'd from their innocence incautious hearts: Then grudging hate, and sinful pride succeed, Cruel revenge, and false unrighteous deed;