The year revolves, and I again explore The simple Annals of my Parish poor; What Infant-members in my flock appear, What Pairs I bless'd in the departed year; And who, of Old or Young, or Nymphs or Swains, Are lost to Life, its pleasures and its pains. No Muse I ask, before my view to bring The humble actions of the swains I sing. - How pass'd the youthful, how the old their days; Who sank in sloth, and who aspired to praise; Their tempers, manners, morals, customs, arts, What parts they had, and how they 'mploy'd their parts; By what elated, soothed, seduced, depress'd, Full well I know-these Records give the rest. Is there a place, save one the poet sees, A land of love, of liberty, and ease; Where labour wearies not, nor cares suppress Th' eternal flow of rustic happiness; Where no proud mansion frowns in awful state, Or keeps the sunshine from the cottage-gate; Where young and old, intent on pleasure, throng, And half man's life is holiday and song? Vain search for scenes like these! no view appears, By sighs unruffled or unstain'd by tears; Since vice the world subdued and waters drown'd, Auburn and Eden can no more be found. Hence good and evil mixed, but man has skill And power to part them, when he feels the will! Toil, care, and patience bless th' abstemious few, Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue. Behold the Cot! where thrives th' industrious swain, Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain; Screen'd from the winter's wind, the sun's last ray Smiles on the window and prolongs the day; Projecting thatch the woodbine's branches stop, And turn their blossoms to the casement's top: All need requires is in that cot contain'd, And much that taste untaught and unrestrain'd Surveys delighted; there she loves to trace, In one gay picture, all the royal race; Around the walls are heroes, lovers, kings; The print that shows them and the verse that sings. Here the last Louis on his throne is seen, And there he stands imprison'd, and his Queen; To these the mother takes her child, and shows What grateful duty to his God he owes; Who gives to him a happy home, where he Lives and enjoys his freedom with the free; When kings and queens, dethroned, insulted, tried, Are all these blessings of the poor denied. There is King Charles, and all his Golden Rules, Who proved Misfortune's was the best of schools: And there his Son, who, tried by years of pain, Proved that misfortunes may be sent in vain. The Magic-mill that grinds the gran'nams young, Close at the side of kind Godiva hung; She, of her favourite place the pride and joy, Of charms at once most lavish and most coy, By wanton act the purest fame could raise, And give the boldest deed the chastest praise. There stands the stoutest Ox in England fed; There fights the boldest Jew, Whitechapel bred; And here Saint Monday's worthy votaries live, In all the joys that ale and skittles give. Now, lo! on Egypt's coast that hostile fleet,