James Thomson (1700 – 1748)
Scottish poet and playwright.
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.
He ceased; but still their trembling ears retained
The deep vibrations of his witching song.
A little, round, fat, oily man of God.
Plac'd far amid the melancholy main.
But yonder comes the powerful king of day,
Rejoicing in the east.
Poor is the triumph o’er the timid hare!
Scared from the corn, and now to some lone seat
Retired—
For many a day, and many a dreadful night,
Incessant lab'ring round the stormy cape.
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 living stream, at eve.
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave:
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave.
Amid the roses fierce Repentance rears
Her snaky crest.
The kiss, snatch'd hasty from the sidelong maid.
Or where the Northern ocean, in vast whirls,
Boils round the naked melancholy isles
Of farthest Thul?, and th' Atlantic surge
Pours in among the stormy Hebrides.
Who stemm'd the torrent of a downward age.
An elegant sufficiency, content,
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Ease and alternate labour, useful life,
Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven!
Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave.
There studious let me sit,
And hold high converse with the mighty dead.
But who can paint
Like Nature? Can imagination boast,
Amid its gay creation, hues like hers?
But what most showed the vanity of life
Was to behold the nations all on fire.
And Mecca saddens at the long delay.
Base Envy withers at another’s joy,
And hates that excellence it cannot reach.
O fair undress, best dress! it checks no vein,
But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns,
And heightens ease with grace.