Nor small the task with no frail varnish fraught,
To deck in sylvan dress, the sylvan thought,
Peculiar art it claims, and oft requires
Than the bold epic more exalted fires,
Fires, that each sibre to their purpose wrest,
Electric, rushing on the ravish'd breast;
Hence, unoppes'd, in full despotic fame,
Sweet A UBURN'S Bard must ever be the same,
Hence, the fair descant wove in M EMORY'S loom,
Perennial rose and myrtle shall perfume,
Hence, wayward minstrel of th' attentive vale,
The V ILLAGE C URATE pour his pleasing tale,
Hence, too, the heart it's choicest incense breathe
On warbling S YMPATHY'S immortal wreath.
Tho' here no foreign wonders I rehearse,
Tuneful enchantment in each vary'd verse,
Here, tho' no bright resistless magic shines,
Which rapture moulds, and classic care refines,
Nor mystic melodies of measur'd sound
That wild'ring, lead the fervient passions round,
Yet, unambitious of a larger claim,
My subject not less humble then my aim,
Perchance, I hold with pardonable grace,
The muse's mirror up to nature's face;
For me enough; (if aught my verse may boast
Of genuine Feeling, where refinement's lost,)
From the dull crowd my straggling sense to wean,
To charm the critics of the village-green,
To bid their innocent amusements shew
All public vice the source of private woe,
And to the lewd metropolis unfold
These laws, to love, which is but to behold.

Oh! mid the venal city who can prove
That sweetest, that divinest passion, L OVE ?
Balm of all wounds, without whose solace mild
Existence were a melancholy wild,
In sullen hate where hostile tribes would run
Unciviliz'd, and loath the rising Sun;
Oh! who without his store of Scorn compleat,
Can see it purchas'd in the public street?
The venom'd fold, the mercenary kiss,
The murdering rapture, and the baleful bliss,
The softest luxury of soaring thought,
Oh! who can see like each low barter—bought?