Advance we on, as sure we must, Ambition blinds our eyes with duft; With greedy hands we grasp at wealth, Till Summer flies, and rofy health.
Next Autumn comes, and with it cares, We fee we've drudg'd for worthless heirs, Whose giddy rounds our comforts drain, And fap the sweets of all our gain.
At variance now with all below,
Old age brings on a Winter's woe;
Our filver'd hairs, proofs of decay,
Without our notice, steal away;
No prospect now can cheer the fight,
Which lofes by degrees the light.
No founds can strike the deafen'd ear,
But whispers-that the grave is near,
At laft oblivion spreads the pall,
Her fable mantle over all.
E, fweet Contentment, fhew thy face,
Adorn'd with every bloming grace;
Approach my cot, and dwell with me;
Bleft is the man poffefs'd of thee.
Long have I fought thee, but in vain,
Thou йy'ft me ftill, and with difdain;
Doft thou prefer a rural feat?
Come make my dwelling thy retreat.
No wealth have I acquir'd by guile,
That might difpel thy rofy fmile;
No fond ambition racks my breast,
That might difturb thy balmy reft;
I have small fellowship with care,
And can, like others, hardships bear.
Come, and make discontentment fly,
And tend me with a gracious eye.
Around my little cleanly cot,
Mufic tries each sprightly note,
From every fhade the feather'd throng,
Serenade me all day long.
Brouzing on th' enamell'd green,
My flocks difplay a rural scene,
That mix their bleatings with the found,
Of murmuring streams that flow around.
Then come, thou friend of focial glee,
Let me enjoy thefe fcenes with thee.
Dear Shepherd, an obfequious gale,
Brought to my ravish'd ears thy tale;
If to my words thou wilt attend,
Contentment ftill fhall be thy friend;
She'll fix her temple in thy breaft,
And ever be thy conftant guest.
Know then each paffion of thy foul,
The umpire Reason, must controul;
Whenever reafon lofes fway,
Contentment, Shepherd, flies away.
I, and my oppofite, in kind,
Subfift entirely in the mind;
The feeds of comfort or despair,
Are folely, friend, implanted there.
Wert thou poffefs'd of all the gold,
By which mankind are bought and fold,
With no infirmities of frame,
To four thy relish for the fame;
Did at thy word remoteft lands,
Attentive bow at thy commands;
Was guilt upon thy foul impreft,
I could not harbour in thy breaft;
On fleeteft wings I'd bear away,
Nor gems, nor gold, could bribe my stay!
Content regards not rank nor birth,
But only dwells with men of worth;
Nor flies old age, to favour youth:
But dwells with Wisdom, Virtue, Truth.
If, in a fretful peevish strain,
Old inappifh Dotards will complain,
'Tis not that I, when age appears,
Defert them in declining years:
But that they've follow'd folly's path,
Till tott'ring on the verge of death,
They feel remorfe for what is past;
They find their bodies run to waste;
They have no hope beyond the grave;
That might their gloomy cares relieve.
When discontent invades the mind,
It ever will materials find,
On which to fret, on which to brood,
But holds no converse with the good.
Before I may with thee remain,
Thou muft thy paffions all reftrain,
Muft every virtuous act pursue,
Whate'er thou seest another do.
In heats of ftrife, or party rage,
Ne'er let thy mind at all engage,
Nor view with fcorn, nor envious eyes,
The healthy, wealthy, or the wife;
And at their lot, repine at none,
But learn the art to like thy own.
So fhall thy life in ease be spent,
And in thy bofom dwell Content.
TO SHENTON's BALLAD ON ABSENCE.
HY does my sweet CORYDON figh,
And leave his flocks wildly to ftray;
Was e'er a Nymph fonder than I,
Or griev'd more was her Shepherd away,
I wander by murmuring Jed,
And still make my lover my theme;
I languish and hang down my head,
And drop my tears into the stream.
O how could my CORYDON go,
And torture his PHYLLIS with care,
To leave her a victim to woe,
And wafte her lone hours in despair.
The places that were our delight,
No longer give pleasure to me;
I ficken, dear Swain, at the light,
And muft die, if still absent from thee.
No longer I join in those scenes,
That with CORYDON, pleas'd me before;
To sport with the Nymphs and the Swains,
Are frolics that please me no more.
My flocks are all feeding in view,
And my lambs at their frolicfome play;
Ere CORYDON bade me adieu,
His PHYLLIS was sportive as they.
A Blackbird, lamenting her mate,
Has melted my heart all day long;
Comparing my own to her fate,
I've pour'd out my tears to her fong.
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