This sapient age disclaims all classic lore; Else I should here, in cunning phrase, display, How forth THE MINSTREL fared in days of yore, Right glad of heart, though homely in array; His waving locks and beard all hoary grey: And, from his bending shoulder, decent hung His harp, the sole companion of his way, Which to the whistling wind responsive rung: And ever as he went some merry lay he sung. IV. Fret not yourselves, ye silken sons of pride, That a poor Wanderer should inspire my strain. The Muses fortune's fickle smile deride, Nor ever bow the knee in Mammon's fane; For their delights are with the village-train, Whom Nature's laws engage, and Nature's charms: They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain; The parasite their influence never warms, Nor him whose sordid soul the love of wealth alarms. V. Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, Yet horror screams from his discordant throat. Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn, While warbling larks on russet pinions float; Or seek, at noon, the woodland scene remote, Where the grey linnets carol from the hill. O let them ne'er, with artificial note, To please a tyrant, strain the little bill! But sing what heaven inspires, and wander where they will. VI. Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; Nor was perfection made for man below. Yet all her schemes with nicest art are planned, Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe. With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow, If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise; There, plague and poison, lust and rapine grow; Here, peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies, And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes. VII. Then grieve not, thou, to whom the indulgent Muse Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire; Nor blame the partial fates, if they refuse The imperial banquet, and the rich attire. Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined? No; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire, To fancy, freedom, harmony, resigned; Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind. VIII. Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul In each fine sense so exquisitely keen, On the dull couch of Luxury to loll, Stung with disease, and stupified with spleen; Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen, Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide, (The mansion, then, no more of joy serene) Where fear, distrust, malevolence, abide, And impotent desire, and disappointed pride? IX.