The rolls of fame I will not now explore; Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, That a poor villager inspires my strain; With thee let Pageantry and Power abide : The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign; Where thro' wild groves at eve the lonely swain Enraptur'd roams, to gaze on Nature's charms. They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain, The parasite their influence never warms, Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms. Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will. Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow; Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies, And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes. Then grieve not, thou, to whom the indulgent Muse Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul, O how canst thou renounce the boundless store The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven? These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealth There liv'd in Gothic days, as legends tell, But he, I ween, was of the north countrie:* A nation fam'd for song, and beauty's charms; Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms, *There is hardly an ancient Ballad or Romance, wherein a Minstrel or Harper appears, but he is characterized, by way of eminence, to have been "of the North Countrie." It is probable, that under this appellation were formerly comprehended all the provinces to the north of the Trent. See!Percy's Essay on the English Minstrels. The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made, On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock; The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd; An honest heart was almost all his stock; His drink the living water from the rock: The milky dams supplied his board, and lent Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock; And he, tho' oft with dust and sweat besprent, Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went. From labour health, from health contentment springs, Contentment opes the source of every joy. He envied not, he never thought of kings: Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy, Which chance may frustrate or indulgence cloy; Nor fate his calm and humble hopes beguil'd; He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy, For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smil❜d, And her alone he lov'd, and lov'd her from a child. No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast, Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife; Each season look'd delightful, as it past, To the fond husband, and the faithful wife. Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life They never roam'd; secure beneath the storm Which in ambition's lofty land is rife, Where peace and love are canker'd by the worm Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform. B 2 The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold, Nor aught that might a strange event declare. And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy; Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye. Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude, nor toy, Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy. Silent, when glad; affectionate though shy; And now his look was most demurely sad, And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why. The neighbours star'd and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad; Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believ'd him mad. But why should I his childish feats display? Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fled: Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps, but to the forest sped, Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head; Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, Shot from the western cliff, releas'd the weary team. |