Classic Poem

A Poem to Mr. POPE .

You , who the Sweets of Rural Life have known.
Despise th' ungrateful Hurry of the Town;
'Midst Windsor Groves your easie Hours employ,
And, undisturb'd your self and Muse enjoy.
Soft flowing Thames his mazy Course retains,
And in suspence admires thy charming Strains;
The River-Gods and Nymphs about thee throng,
To hear the Syrens warble in thy Song.
But I, who ne'er was bless'd from Fortune's Hand,
Nor brighten'd Plough-shares in Paternal Land,
Have long been in the noisie Town immur'd,
Respir'd it 's Smoak, and all it's Toils endur'd,
Have courted Bus'ness with successless Pain,
And in Attendance wasted Years in vain;
Where News and Politicks amuse Mankind,
And Schemes of State involve th' uneasie Mind;
Faction embroils the World; and ev'ry Tongue
Is fraught with Malice, and with Scandal hung:
Friendship, for Sylvan Shades, does Courts despise,
Where all must yield to Int'rest's dearer Ties;
Each Rival Machiavel with Envy burns,
And Honesty forsakes them All by turns;
Whilst Calumny upon each Party's thrown,
Which Both abhor, and Both alike disown.
Thus have I, 'midst the Brawls of factious Strife,
Long undergone the Drudgery of Life;
On Courtiers Promises I founded Schemes,
Which still deluded me, like golden Dreams;
Expectance wore the tedious Hours away,
And glimm'ring Hope roll'd on each lazy Day.
Resolv'd at last no more Fatigues to bear,
At once I both forsook the Town and Care;
At a kind Friend's a calm Asylum chose,
And bless'd my harass'd Mind with sweet Repose,
Where Fields and Shades, and the refreshing Clime.
Inspire the Sylvan Song, and prompt my Rhime.
My Muse shall rove through flow'ry Meads and Plains,
And Rural Sports adorn these homely Strains,
And the same Road ambitiously pursue,
Frequented by the Mantuan Swain, and You.
Now did the Spring her Native Sweets diffuse,
And feed the chearful Plains with wholesome Dews;
A kindly Warmth th' approaching Sun bestows,
And o'er the Year a verdant Mantle throws;
The jocund Fields their gaudiest Liv'ry wear,
And breath fresh Odours through the wanton Air;
The gladsome Birds begin their various Lays,
And fill with warbling Songs the blooming Sprays;
No swelling Inundation hides the Grounds,
But crystal Currents glide within their Bounds;
The sporting Fish their wonted Haunts forsake,
And in the Rivers wide Excursions take;
They range with frequent Leaps the shallow Streams,
And their bright Scales reflect the daz'ling Beams,
The Fisherman does now his Toils prepare,
And Arms himself with ev'ry watry Snare.
He meditates new Methods to betray,
Threat'ning Destruction to the finny Prey.
When floating Clouds their spongy Fleeces drain,
Troubling the Streams with swift-descending Rain,
And Waters, tumbling down the Mountain's Side,
Bear the loose Soil into the swelling Tide;
Then, soon as Vernal Gales begin to rise,
And drive the liquid Burthen through the Skies,
The Fisher strait his Taper Rod prepares,
And to the Neighb'ring Stream in haste repairs;
Upon a rising Border of the Brook
He sits him down, and ties the treach'rous Hook;
A twining Earth-worm he draws on with Care,
With which he neatly hides the pointed Snare.
Now Expectation chears his eager Thought,
His Bosom glows with Treasures yet uncaught,
Before his Eyes a Banquet seems to stand,
The kind Effects of his industrious Hand.
Into the Stream the twisted Hair he throws,
Which gently down the murm'ring Current flows;
When if or Chance or Hunger's pow'rful Sway
Directs a ranging Trout this fatal way,
He greedily sucks in the tortur'd Bait,
And shoots away with the fallacious Meat.
The trembling Rod the joyful Angler eyes,
And the strait Line assures him of the Prize;
With a quick Hand the nibbled Hook he draws,
And strikes the barbed Steel within his Jaws;
The Fish now flounces with the startling Pain,
And, plunging, strives to free himself, in vain;
Into the thinner Element he 's cast,
And on the verdant Margin gasps his Last.
He must not ev'ry Worm promiscuous use,
Judgment will tell him proper Bait to chuse;
The Worm that draws a long immod'rate Size
The Trout abhors, and the rank Morsel flies;
But if too small, the naked Fraud 's in sight,
And Fear forbids, while Hunger does invite.
Their shining Tails when a deep Yellow stains,
That Bait will well reward the Fisher's Pains:
Cleanse them from Filth, to give a tempting Gloss,
Cherish the sully'd Animals with Moss;
Where they rejoice, wreathing around in Play,
And from their Bodies wipe their native Clay.
But when the Sun displays his glorious Beams,
And falling Rivers flow with Silver Streams,
When no moist Clouds the radiant Air invest
And Flora in her richest State is drest,
Then the disporting Fish the Cheat survey,
Bask in the Sun, and look into the Day.
You now a more delusive Art must try,
And tempt their Hunger with the Curious Fly:
Your wary Steps must not advance too near,
Whilst all your Hope hangs on a single Hair;
Upon the curling Surface let it glide,
With Nat'ral Motion from thy Hand supply'd.
Against the Stream now let it gently play,
Now in the rapid Eddy roll away;
The sporting Fish leaps at the floating Bait,
And in the dainty Morsel seeks his Fate.
Thus the nice Epicure , whom Lux'ry sways.
Who ev'ry Craving of his Taste obeys,
Makes his false Appetite his only Care,
In poignant Sauce disguises all his Fare;
And whilst he would his vicious Palate please,
In ev'ry Bit sucks in a new Disease;
The Cook destroys with his compounding Art,
And dextrously performs the Doctor's Part.
To frame the little Animal, provide
All the gay Hues that wait on Female Pride,
Let Nature guide thee; sometimes Golden Wire
The glitt'ring Bellies of the Fly require;
The Peacock's Plumes thy Tackle must not fail,
Nor the dear Purchase of the Sable's Tail.
Each gaudy Bird some slender Tribute brings,
And lends the growing Insect proper Wings,
Silks of all Colours must their Aid impart,
And ev'ry Fur promote the Fisher's Art.
So the gay Lady, with Expensive Care,
Borrows the Pride of Land, of Sea, and Air;
Furs, Pearls, and Plumes, the painted Thing displays,
Dazles our eyes, and easie Hearts betrays.
Mark well the various Seasons of the Year,
How the succeeding Insect Race appear;
In this revolving Moon one Colour reigns,
Which in the next the fickle Trout disdains.
Oft' have I seen a skillful Angler try
The various Colours of the treach'rous Fly;
When he with fruitless Pain hath skim'd the Brook,
And the coy Fish rejects the skipping Hook,
He shakes the Boughs that on the Margin grow,
Which o'er the Streams a waving Forrest throw;
When if an Insect falls, (his certain Guide)
He gently takes him from the whirling Tide;
Examines well his Form with curious Eyes,
His gaudy Colours, Wings, his Horns and Size,
Then round his Hook a proper Fur he winds,
And on the Back a speckled Feather binds,
So just the Properties in ev'ry part,
That even Nature's Hand revives in Art.
His new-form'd Creature on the Water moves,
The roving Trout th' inviting Snare approves,
Upon his Skill successful Sport attends,
The Rod, with the succeeding Burthen, bends;
The Fishes sail along, and in Surprize
Behold their Fellows drawn into the Skies;
When soon they rashly seize the deadly Bait,
And Lux'ry draws them to their Fellow's Fate.
When a brisk Gale against the Current blows,
And all the watry Plain in Wrinkles flows,
Then let the Fisherman his Art repeat,
Where bubbling Eddys favour the Deceit.
If an huge scaly Salmon chance to spy
The wanton Errors of the swimming Fly,
He lifts his Silver Gills above the Flood,
And greedily sucks in th' unfaithful Food;
Then plunges down with the deceitful Prey,
And bears with Joy the little Spoils away.
Soon in smart Pains he feels the dire Mistake,
Lashes the Waves, and beats the foamy Lake,
With sudden Rage he now aloft appears
And in his Look convulsive Anguish bears;
And now again, impatient of the Wound,
He rolls and wreathes his shining Body round;
Then headlong shoots himself into the Tide,
And trembling Fins the boiling Waves divide;
Now Hope and Fear the Fisher's Heart employ,
His smiling Looks glow with depending Joy,
He views the tumbling Fish with eager Eyes,
While his Line stretches with th' unwieldly Prize;
Each Motion humours with his steady Hands,
And a slight Hair the mighty Bulk commands;
Till tir'd at last, despoil'd of all his Strength,
The Fish athwart the Streams unfolds his Length.
He now, with Pleasure, views the gasping Prize
Gnash his sharp Teeth, and roll his Blood-shot Eyes,
Then draws him t'wards the Shore, with gentle Care,
And holds his Nostrils in the sick'ning Air:
Upon the burthen'd Stream he floating lies,
Stretches his quiv'ring Fins, and Panting dies.
So the Coquet th' unhappy Youth ensnares,
With artful Glances and affected Airs,
Baits him with Frowns, now lures him on with Smiles,
And in Disport employs her practis'd Wiles;
The Boy at last, betray'd by borrow'd Charms,
A Victim falls in her enslaving Arms.
If you'd preserve a num'rous finny Race,
Let your fierce Dogs the Rav'nous Otter chase;
Th' amphibious Creature ranges all the Shores,
Shoots through the Waves, and ev'ry Haunt explores:
Or let the Gin his roving Steps betray,
And save from hostile Jaws the scaly Prey.
Now, sporting Muse, draw in the flowing Reins,
Leave the clear Streams a-while for sunny Plains.
Should you the various Arms and Toils rehearse,
And all the Fisherman adorn thy Verse;
Should you the wide encircling Net display,
And in it's spacious Arch enclose the Sea,
Then haul the plunging Load upon the Land
And with the Soale and Turbet hide the Sand;
It would extend the growing Theme too long,
And tire the Reader with the watry Song.
Nor do such vacant Sports alone invite,
But all the grateful Country breaths Delight;
Here blooming Health exerts her gentle Reign.
And strings the Sinews of th' industrious Swain.
Soon as the Morning Lark proclaims the Day,
Into the Fields I take my frequent Way,
Where I behold the Farmer's early Care,
In the revolving Labours of the Year.
When high Luxuriant Grass o'erspreads the Ground,
And the fresh Spring in all her State is Crown'd.
The Lab'rer with the bending Scythe is seen,
Shaving the Surface of the waving Green;
Of all her Native Pride disrobes the Land,
And Meads lays waste before his sweeping Hand:
While with the mounting Sun the Meadows glows,
The fading Herbage round he loosely throws;
From rip'ning Hay diffusive Odours rise,
Which breathing Zephyrs bear throughout the Skies:
But if some Sign portend a lasting Show'r,
Th' observing Swain foresees th' approaching Hour;
He strait in haste the scatt'ring Fork forsakes
And cleanly Damsels ply the saving Rakes;
In rising Hills the fragrant Harvest grows,
And spreads throughout the Plain in equal Rows.
What Happiness the Rural Maid attends,
In chearful Labour while each Day she spends!
She gratefully receives what Heav'n has sent,
And, rich in Poverty, enjoys Content:
Upon her Cheek a pure Vermilion glows,
And all her Beauty she to nature owes;
(Such Happiness, and such a constant Frame,
Ne'er glads the Bosom of the Courtly Dame.)
She never feels the Spleen's imagin'd Pains,
Nor Melancholy stagnates in her Veins;
She never loses Life in thoughtless Ease,
Nor on a downy Couch invites Disease;
Her Dress in a clean simple Neatness lies,
No glaring Equipage excites her Sighs;
Her Reputation, which she values most,
Is ne'er in a Malicious Visit lost:
No Midnight Masquerade her Beauty wears,
And Health, not Paint, the fading Bloom repairs.
If Love's soft Passions in her Bosom reign,
She meets Returns in an obliging Swain;
Domestick Broils do ne'er her Peace controul,
Nor watchful Jealousie torments her Soul;
With secret Joy she sees her little Race
Hang on her Breast, and her small Cottage grace;
Thus flow her peaceful Hours, unknown to Strife,
'Till Age exhausts the latest Thread of Life.
But when th' Ascent of Heav'n bright Phoebus gains
And scorches with fierce Rays the thirsty Plains;
When sleeping Snakes bask in the sultry Sky,
And Swains with fainting Hand their Labours ply,
With naked Breast they court each welcome Breeze,
Nor know the Shelter of the shady Trees:
Then to some secret Covert I retreat,
To shun the Pressure of th' uneasie Heat;
Where the tall Oak his spreading Arms entwines,
And with the Beech a mutual Shade combines;
Here on the Mossy Couch my Limbs I lay,
And taste an Ev'ning at the Noon of Day:
Beneath, a shallow Rivulet runs by,
Whose Silver Streams o'er the smooth Pebbles fly,
With gentle Falls it wanders through the Grounds,
And all the Wood the murm'ring Noise resounds.
In such a Shade was fair Calisto laid,
When am'rous Jove th' unwary Nymph betray'd:
The God, disguis'd in Cynthia 's borrow'd Charms,
Her Lips with more than Virgin Kisses Warms;
While she, surpriz'd, lay melting in his Arms.
Here I with Virgil 's Muse refresh my Mind,
And in his Numbers all the Country find;
I wander o'er the various Rural Toil,
And learn the Nature of each diff'rent Soil;
This fertile Field groans with a Load of Corn,
That spreading Trees with blushing Fruit adorn.
Here I survey the Purple Vintage grow,
Climb round the Poles, and rise in graceful Row,
Whilst Bacchanalian Bowls with the rich Nectar flow.
Here I behold the Steed curvet and bound,
And paw with restless Hoof the smoaking Ground.
The Dewlap'd Bull now scow'rs throughout the Plains,
While burning Love shoots through his raging Veins,
His well-arm'd Front against his Rival aims,
And by the Dint of War his Mistress claims.
His tuneful Muse the industrious Bee recites,
His Wars, his Government, and toilsome Flights;
The careful Insect 'midst his Works I view,
Now from the Flow'rs exhaust the fragrant Dew;
With golden Treasures load his little Thighs,
And steer his afry Journey through the Skies;
With liquid Sweets the waxen Cells distend,
While some 'gainst Hostile Drones their Cave defend;
Each in the Toil a proper Station bears,
And in the little Bulk a mighty Soul appears.
The Country all her native Charms displays.
And various Landschapes flourish in his Lays.
Or when the Lab'rer leaves the Task of Day,
And trudging homewards whistles on the Way;
When the big udder'd Cows with Patience stand,
Waiting the Stroakings of the Damsel's Hand
No Warbling chears the Woods; the Feather'd Choir
To court kind Slumbers, to their Sprays retire;
When no rude Gale disturbs the sleeping Trees,
Nor Aspen Leaves confess the gentlest Breeze;
I sooth my Mind with an indulgent Walk,
And shun a-while the tiresome Noise of Talk,
Engag'd in Thought, to Neptune 's Bounds I stray,
To take my Farewel of the parting Day;
The blushing Skies glow with the sinking Beams,
And a bright Glory mingles with the Streams:
A Golden Light upon the Surface plays,
And the wide Ocean smiles with trembling Rays;
Here Pensive I behold the fading Light,
And in the distant Billows lose my Sight.
Now Night in silent State begins to rise,
And twinkling Orbs bestrow th' uncloudy Skies;
Her borrow'd Lustre growing Cynthia lends,
And o'er the Main a glitt'ring Path extends;
Millions of Worlds hang in the spacious Air,
Which round their Suns their Annual Circles steer.
Sweet Contemplation elevates my Sense,
While I survey the Works of Providence.
Oh, could my Muse in loftier Strains rehearse
The Glorious Author of this Universe,
Who reins the Winds, gives the vast Ocean Bounds,
And circumscribes the floating Worlds their Rounds!
My Soul should overflow in Songs of Praise,
And my Creator's Name inspire my Lays.
Now Ceres pours out Plenty from her Horn,
And cloaths the Fields with golden Ears of Corn;
Let the keen Hunter from the Chase refrain,
Nor render all the Plowman's Labour vain.
The Reapers to their sweating Task repair,
To save the Product of the bounteous Year:
To the wide-gathering Hook long Furrows yield,
And rising Sheaves extend through all the Field.
Oh happy Plains! remote from War's Alarms,
And all the Ravages of Hostile Arms;
And happy Shepherds who secure from Fear
On open Downs preserve your fleecy Care!
Where no rude Soldier, bent on cruel Spoil,
Spreads Desolation o'er the fertile Soil;
No trampling Steed lays waste the rip'ning Grain,
Nor crackling Flames devour the promis'd Gain;
No flaming Beacons cast their Blaze afar.
The dreadful Signal of invasive War;
No Trumpet's Clangor wounds the Mother's Ear,
Nor calls the Lover from his swooning Fair;
But the fill'd Barns groan with th' encreasing Store,
And whirling Flails disjoint the cracking Floor:
Let Anna then adorn your Rural Lays,
And ev'ry Wood resound with grateful Praise;
Anna , who binds the Tyrant War in Chains,
And Peace diffuses o'er the chearful Plains;
In whom again the bright Astrea Reigns.
As in successive Toil the Seasons roll,
So various Pleasures recreate the Soul;
The setting Dog, instructed to betray,
Rewards the Fowler with the Feather'd Prey.
Soon as the lab'ring Horse with swelling Veins,
Hath safely hous'd the Farmer's doubtful Gains,
To sweet Repast th' unwary Partridge flies,
At Ease amidst the scatter'd Harvest lies,
Wandring in Plenty, Danger he forgets,
Nor dreads the Slav'ry of entangling Nets.
The subtle Dog now with sagacious Nose
Scowres through the Field, and snuffs each Breeze that blows,
Against the Wind he takes his prudent way,
While the strong Gale directs him to the Prey;
Now the warm Scent assures the Covey near,
He treads with Caution, and he points with Fear;
Then least some Sentry Fowl his Fraud descry,
And bid his Fellows from the Danger fly,
Close to the Ground in Expectation lies,
Till in the Snare the flutt'ring Covey rise.
Thus the sly Sharper sets the thoughtless 'Squire,
Who to the Town does aukwardly aspire:
Trick'd of his Gold, he Mortgages his Land,
And falls a Captive to the Bailiff's Hand.
Soon as the blushing Light begins to spread,
And rising Phoebus gilds the Mountain's Head,
His early Flight th' ill-fated Partridge takes,
And quits the friendly Shelter of the Brakes:
Or when the Sun casts a declining Ray,
And drives his Chariot down the Western way,
Let your obsequious Ranger search around,
Where the dry Stubble withers on the Ground:
Nor will the roving Spy direct in vain,
But num'rous Coveys gratifie thy Pain.
When the Meridian Sun contracts the Shade,
And frisking Heifers seek the cooling Glade;
Or when the Country floats with sudden Rains,
Or driving Mists deface the moist'ned Plains;
In vain his Toils th' unskillful Fowler tries,
Whilst in thick Woods the feeding Partridge lies.
Nor must the sporting Verse the Gun forbear,
But what's the Fowler's be the Muse's Care;
The Birds that in the Thicket seek their Food,
Who love the Covert, and frequent the Wood,
Despise the Net: But still can never shun
The momentary Lightning of the Gun.
The Spaniel ranges all the Forrest round,
And with discerning Nostril snuffs the Ground
Now rusling on, with barking Noise alarms,
And bids his watchful Lord prepare to Arms;
The dreadful Sound the springing Pheasant hears,
Leaves his close Haunt, and to some Tree repairs:
The Dog, aloft the painted Fowl, surveys,
Observes his Motions, and at distance Bays.
His noisie Foe the stooping Pheasant eyes,
Fear binds his Feet, and useless Pinions ties,
Till the sure Fowler, with a sudden Aim,
From the tall Bough precipitates the Game.
So the Pale Coward from the Battel flies,
Soon as a Rout the Victor Army cries;
With clashing Weapons Fancy fills his Ear,
And Bullets whistle round his bristled Hair;
Now from all Sides th' imagin'd Foe draws nigh,
He trembling stands, nor knows which Way to fly;
'Till Fate behind aims a disgraceful Wound,
And throws his gasping Carcass to the Ground.
But if the Bird, to shun the dreadful Snare,
With quiv'ring Pinions cuts the liquid Air;
The scatt'ring Lead pursues th' unerring Sight,
And Death in Thunder overtakes his flight.
The tow'ring Hawk let future Poets sing,
Who Terror bears upon his soaring Wing:
Let him on high the frighted Horn survey,
And lofty Numbers paint their Airy Fray.
Nor shall the mounting Lark the Muse detain,
That greets the Morning with his early Strain;
How, 'midst his Song, by the false Glass betray'd,
(That fatal Snare to the fantastick Maid,)
Pride lures the little Warbler from the Skies.
Where folding Nets the Captive Bird surprize.
The Greyhound now pursues the tim'rous Hare,
And shoots along the Plain with swift Career;
While the sly Game escapes beneath his Paws.
He snaps deceitful Air with empty Jaws;
Enrag'd, upon his Foe he quickly gains,
And with wide Stretches measures o'er the Plains;
Again the cunning Creature winds around,
While the fleet Dog o'ershoots, and loses ground;
Now Speed he doubles to regain the Way,
And crushes in his Jaws the screaming Prey.
Thus does the Country various Sports afford,
And unbought Dainties heap the wholesome Board.
But still the Chase, a pleasing Task, remains;
The Hound must open in these rural Strains.
Soon as Aurora drives away the Night,
And edges Eastern Clouds with rosie Light,
The wakeful Huntsman, with the chearful Horn,
Summons the Dogs, and greets the rising Morn:
Th' enliven'd Hounds the welcome Accent hear,
Start from their Sleep, and for the Chase prepare.
Now o'er the Field a diff'rent Route they take,
Search ev'ry Bush, and force the thorny Brake
No bounding Hedge obstructs their eager Way,
While their sure Nostril leads them to the Prey:
Now they with Joy th' encreasing Scent pursue,
And trace the Game along the tainted Dew;
A sudden Clamour rings throughout the Plain,
And calls the Straglers from their fruitless Pain,
All swiftly to the welcome Sound repair,
And join their Force against the skulking Hare.
Thus when the Drum an idle Camp alarms,
And summons all the scatt'ring Troops to Arms;
The Soldiers the commanding Thunder know,
And in one Body meet th' approaching Foe.
The tuneful Noise the sprightly Courser hears,
He paws the Turf, and pricks his rising Ears:
The list'ning Hare, unsafe in longer Stay,
With wary Caution steals unseen away;
But soon his treach'rous Feet his Flight betray.
The distant Mountains eccho from afar,
And neighb'ring Woods resound the flying War;
The slackned Rein admits the Horse's Speed,
And the swift Ground flies back beneath the Steed.
Now at a Fault the Dogs confus'dly stray,
And strive t' unravel his perplexing Way;
They trace his artful Doubles o'er and o'er,
Smell ev'ry Shrub, and all the Plain explore,
'Till some stanch Hound summons the baffled Crew,
And strikes away his wily Steps anew.
Along the Fields they scow'r with jocund Voice,
The frighted Hare starts at the distant Noise;
New Stratagems and various Shifts he tries,
Oft' he looks back, and dreads a close Surprise;
Th' advancing Dogs still haunt his list'ning Ear,
And ev'ry Breeze augments his growing Fear:
'Till tir'd at last, he pants, and heaves for Breath;
Then lays him down, and waits approaching Death.
Nor should the Fox shun the pursuing Hound,
Nor the tall Stag with branching Antlers crown'd;
But each revolving Sport the Year employ,
And fortifie the Mind with healthful Joy.
Oh happy Fields, unknown to Noise and Strife,
The kind Rewarders of industrious Life;
Ye shady Woods, where once I us'd to rove,
Alike indulgent to the Muse and Love;
Ye murm'ring Streams that in Maeanders roll,
The sweet Composers of the peaceful Soul,
Farewel. — — Now Business calls me from the Plains,
Confines my Fancy, and my Song restrains.