Sure Peace is his: A solid Life, estrang’d

To Disappointment and fallacious Hope,

Rich in Content.  Thomson.

Happy the Man, who free from noisy Sports,

And all the Pomp and Pageantry of Courts:

Far from the venal World can live secure,

Be moral, honest, virtuous — tho’ but poor,

Who walking still by Equity’s just Rules,

Detesting sordid Knaves, and flatt’ring Fools:

Regarding neither Fortune, Pow’r, nor State,

Nor ever wishing to be vainly great,

Without Malevolence and Spleen can live,

And what his Neighbour wants, with Joy would give;

A Foe to Pride, no Passion’s guilty Friend,

Obeying Nature, faithful to her End;

Severe in Manners, as in Truth severe,

Just to himself, and to his Friends sincere;

His Temper even, and his steady Mind

Refin’d by Friendship, and by Books refin’d.

Some low-roof’d Cottage holds the happy Swain,

Unknown to Lux’ry, or her servile Train;

He studying Nature grows serenely wise,

Like Socrates he lives, or like him dies.

He asks no Glory gain’d by hostile Arms,

Nor sighs for Grandeur with her painted Charms.

With calm Indiff’rence views the shifting Scene,

Thro’ all magnanimous, resign’d, serene.

On Hope sustain’d he treads Life’s devious Road,

And knows no Fear, except the Fear of God.

Would Heav’n indulgent grant my fond Desire,

Thus would I live, and thus should Life expire.

Still like his Master, known by breaking Bread,

The Good he entertain’d, the Needy fed;

Of Humour easy, and of Life unblam’d,

The Friend delighted, while the Priest reclaim’d.

The Friend, the Father, and the Husband gone,

The Priest still lives in this recording Stone;

Where pious Eyes may read his Praises o’er,

And learn each Grace his Pulpit taught before.

Here lies, who need not here be nam’d,

For Theologic Knowledge fam’d;

Who all the Bible had by rote,

With all the Comments Calvin wrote;

Parsons and Jesuits could confute,

Talk Infidels and Quakers mute,

To every Heretick a Foe;

Was he an honest Man? —— So so.

O happy he! happiest of mortal Men!

Who far remov’d from Slavery, as from Pride,

Fears no Man’s Frown, nor cringing waits to catch

The gracious Nothing of a great Man’s Nod;

Where the lac’d Beggar bustles for a Bribe,

The Purchase of his Honour; where Deceit,

And Fraud, and Circumvention, drest in Smiles,

Hold shameful Commerce, and beneath the Mask

Of Friendship and Sincerity, betray.

Him, nor the stately Mansion’s gilded Pride,

Rich with whate’er the imitative Arts,

Painting or Sculpture, yield to charm the Eye;

Nor shining Heaps of massy Plate, enwrought

With curious, costly Workmanship, allure.

Tempted nor with the Pride nor Pomp of Power,

Nor Pageants of Ambition, nor the Mines

Of grasping Av’rice, nor the poison’d Sweets

Of pamper’d Luxury, he plants his Foot

With Firmness on his old paternal Fields,

And stands unshaken. There sweet Prospects rise

Of Meadows smiling in their flow’ry Pride,

Green Hills and Dales, and Cottages embower’d,

The Scenes of Innocence, and calm Delight.

There the wild Melody of warbling Birds,

And cool refreshing Groves, and murmuring Springs,

Invite to sacred Thought, and lift the Mind

From low Pursuits, to meditate the God!

But sing, O Muse! the Swain, the happy Swain,

Whom Taste and Nature leading o’er his Fields,

Conduct to every rural Beauty. See!

Before his Footsteps winds the waving Walk,

Here gently rising, there descending slow

Thro’ the tall Grove, or near the Water’s Brink,

Where Flow’rs besprinkled paint the shelving Bank,

And weeping Willows bend to kiss the Stream.

Now wand’ring o’er the Lawn he roves, and now

Beneath the Hawthorn’s secret Shade reclines;

Where purple Violets hang their bashful Heads,

Where yellow Cowslips, and the blushing Pink,

Their mingled Sweets, and lovely Hues combine.

Here, shelter’d from the North, his ripening Fruits

Display their sweet Temptations from the Wall,

Or from the gay Espalier; while below,

His various Esculents, from glowing Beds,

Give the fair Promise of delicious Feasts.

There from his forming Hand new Scenes arise,

The fair Creation of his Fancy’s Eye.

Lo! bosom’d in the solemn shady Grove,

Whose rev’rend Branches wave on yonder Hill,

He views the Moss-grown Temple’s ruin’d Tower,

Cover’d with creeping Ivy’s cluster’d Leaves,

The Mansion seeming of some rural God,

Whom Nature’s Choristers, in untaught Hymns

Of wild yet sweetest Harmony, adore.

From the bold Brow of that aspiring Steep,

Where hang the nibbling Flocks, and view below

Their downward Shadows in the glassy Wave,

What pleasing Landscapes spread before his Eye!

Of scatter’d Villages, and winding Streams,

And Meadows green, and Woods, and distant Spires,

Seeming, above the blue Horizon’s Bound,

To prop the Canopy of Heaven. Now lost

Amidst a blooming Wilderness of Shrubs,

The golden Orange, Arbute ever green,

The early blooming Almond, feathery Pine,

Fair Opulus,* to Spring, to Autumn dear,

And the sweet Shades of varying Verdure, caught

From soft Acacia’s gently waving Branch,

Heedless he wanders; while the grateful Scents

Of Sweet-briar, Roses, Honeysuckles wild,

Regale the Smell; and to th’enchanted Eye

Mezareon’s purple Laurustinus’ white,

And pale Laburnum’s pendant Flow’rs display

Their diff’rent Beauties. O’er the smooth shorn Grass

His lingering Footsteps leisurely proceed,

In Meditation deep: When, hark! the Sound

Of distant Water steals upon his Ear;

And sudden opens to his pausing Eye

The rapid rough Cascade, from the rude Rock

Down dashing in a stream of lucid Foam:

Then glides away, meand’ring o’er the Lawn,

A liquid Surface; shining seen afar,

At Intervals, beneath the shadowy Trees;

Till lost and bury’d in the distant Grove.

Wrapt into sacred Musing, he reclines

Beneath the Covert of embow’ring Shades;

And, painting to his Mind the bustling Scenes

Of Pride and bold Ambition, pities Kings.

The End.