NOW fairest village of the fertile plain, Made fertile by the labours of the swain; Who first my drowsy spirit did inspire, To sing of woods, and strike the rural lyre: Who last shou'd see me wand'ring from thy cells, And groves of oak where contemplation dwells, Wou'd fate but raise me o'er the smaller cares, Of Life unwelcome and distressful years, Pedantic labours and a hateful ease, Which scarce the hoary wrinkled sage cou'd please. Hence springs each grief, each long reflective sigh, And not one comfort left but poetry. Long, long ago with her I could have stray'd, To woods, to thickets or the mountain shade; Unfit for cities and the noisy throng, The drunken revel and the midnight song; The gilded beau and scenes of empty joy, Which please a moment and forever die. Here then shall center ev'ry wish, and all The tempting beauties of this spacious ball: No thought ambitious, and no bold design, But heaven born contemplation shall be mine. In yonder village shall my fancy stray, Nor rove beyond the confines of to-day; The aged volumes of some plain divine, In broken order round my hut shou'd shine; Whose solemn lines should soften all my cares, And sound devotion to th' eternal stars: And if one sin my rigid breast did stain, Thou poetry shou'dst be the darling sin; Which heav'n without repentance might forgive, And which an angel might commit and live: And where yon' wave of silent water falls, O'er the smooth rock or Adamantine walls: The summer morns and vernal eves should see, MILTON, immortal bard my company; Or SHAKESPEARE, DRYDEN, each high sounding name, The pride of BRITAIN, and one half her fame: Or him who wak'd the fairy muse of old, And pleasing tales of lands inchanted told. Still in my hand, he his soft verse shou'd find His verse, the picture of the poets mind: Or heav'nly POPE, who now harmonious mourns, "Like the rapt seraph that adores and burns." Then in sharp satire, with a giant's might, Forbids the blockhead and the fool to write: And in the centre of the bards be shown The deathless lines of godlike ADDISON; Who, bard thrice glorious, all delightful flows, And wrapt the soul of poetry in prose. NOW cease, O muse, thy tender tale to chaunt, The smiling village, or the rural haunt; New scenes invite me, and no more I rove, To tell of shepherds, or the vernal grove.