James Thomson

Ah! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven, When drooping health and spirits go amiss? How tasteless then whatever can be given! Health is the vital principle of bliss, And exercise, of health.

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny; You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace, You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by …

Their only labour was to kill the time; And labour dire it is, and weary woe, They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme, Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, Or saunter forth, with tottering steps and slow.

A little, round, fat, oily man of God.

A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard becomes Who void of envy, guile and lust of gain, On virtue still and nature's pleasing themes Poured forth his unpremeditated strain.

But what most showed the vanity of life Was to behold the nations all on fire.

Plac'd far amid the melancholy main.

O fair undress, best dress! it checks no vein, But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns, And heightens ease with grace.

He ceased; but still their trembling ears retained The deep vibrations of his witching song.

The best of men have ever loved repose: They hate to mingle in the filthy fray; Where the soul sours, and gradual rancour grows, Imbitter'd more from peevish day to day.

They who are pleased themselves must always please.

A pleasing land of drowsyhed it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky: There eke the soft delights that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness …

The lovely young Lavinia once had friends; And fortune smil'd, deceitful, on her birth.

But while listening Senates hang upon thy tongue, Devolving through the maze of eloquence A roll of periods, sweeter than her song.

Age too shines out: and, garrulous, recounts the feats of youth.

Or where the Northern ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked melancholy isles Of farthest Thulè, and th' Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides.

For still the world prevail'd, and its dread laugh, Which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn.

He saw her charming, but he saw not half The charms her downcast modesty conceal'd.

Her polish'd limbs, Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire; Beyond the pomp of dress; for Loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most.

Think, oh, grateful think! How good the God of Harvest is to you; Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields, While, those unhappy partners of your kind Wide-hover round you, like the fowls of heaven, And ask their humble dole.

Poor is the triumph o’er the timid hare! Scared from the corn, and now to some lone seat Retired—

Home is the resort Of love, of joy, of peace, and plenty; where Supporting and supported, polished friends And dear relations mingle into bliss.

Crowned with the sickle, and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on.

An elegant sufficiency, content, Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, Ease and alternate labour, useful life, Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven!