Classic Poem

A Pastoral Dialogue on the Beauties of R URAL L IFE .

T HE western sun declin'd his scorching ray,
And faintly glitter'd the last smiles of day,
A dun obscurity the earth o'erspread,
And the tumultuous noise of business fled,
Along the river's banks two shepherds stray'd,
And thus the scenes of rural life display'd:

STREPHON.

Above the boasted pageantry of wealth,
We taste life's choicest blessings, peace and health,
Far distant from the court's ambitious strife,
We steal along the vale of humble life,
And blest with calm content more pleasures own,
Than those ambition's chiefest titles crown.

PHILENOR.

How much superior is the shady grove,
Where white rob'd innocence and virtue rove,
To where the noisy streets and smoky town,
The whispering voice of contemplation drown;
To where the voice of clamour sounds aloud,
And virtue's lost amid the bustling crowd.

STREPHON.

Altho', 'tis true, no false politeness shines
Amidst our rural scenes, no art refines,
No meritricious ornaments are lent
Falshood to gild with pleasing compliment,
Yet here plain truth's sincerity impart,
And every brow's the index of the heart.

PHILENOR.

Here, no attempts of mimic art are seen
With gorgeous pomp to deck the splendid scene,
No tragic hero, here, exerts his rage,
And swell'd with frantic passion struts the stage,
But, nature with magnificence displays
Far nobler scenes, where smiling plenty sways.

STREPHON.

The fields their ample area wide extend,
The fertile glebe the plowman's labours bend;
Soon to reward his care and sweating toil,
A scarf of springing green adorns the soil,
By slow degrees presents the ripen'd grain,
And yellow plenty crowns the gladden'd plain.

PHILENOR.

Meadows their gay luxuriant herbage pour,
And suckle myriads of the fairest flowers,
Where various hues attract the wond'ring eye,
Which all the elegance of dress outvie,
Whilst groves in freshest verdure all array'd,
Rise liberal of their sweet reviving shade.

STREPHON.

No tuneful voice, here, melts in amorous strains,
For artless innocence such notes disdains;
None, here, informs the lute with skilful art,
To sooth voluptuous passions in the heart;
Nor from the viol strikes infectious fires,
To fill the hearer's breast with fond desires.

PHILENOR.

But, here, the gurgling rills melodious slow,
The rocks re-echo, and the mountains low;
The slowery vallies, and the circling plains,
Remurmur back the artless bleating strains;
The feather'd songsters warbling notes display,
And play harmonious airs on every spray.

STREPHON.

Ye verdant blooming walks, ye flow'ry lawns,
Where sport the fallow deer, and tim'rous fawns;
Ye dewy, moss-grown cells, and rocky shades
Skirted with fragrant bowers, and cool cascades,
How many heroes, after glorious feats,
Have sought repose in your compos'd retreats?

PHILENOR.

Ye venerable oaks, and solemn groves,
Fit scenes for those that contemplation love;
Ye cliffs that overhang the darken'd flood,
How, after all their toil for public good,
Have patriots laid aside the weight of power,
And spent beneath your shades each vacant hour?

STREPHON.

Oh how inelegant that tasteless mind,
That can no charms in these recesses find,
Can uninspir'd with joy these sweets survey,
And thro' unnumber'd beauties heedless stray:
Just like the owl, that shuns the beaming light,
And flies to obscure shades, and blackest night,
That droops beneath the sun's refulgent ray,
And pants, imprison'd, in the blaze of day.