tions of adversity. Man must be in a certain degree the artificer of his own happiness; the tools and materials may be put into his hands by the bounty of Providence, but the workmanship must be his own.

I lately took a journey into a diftant county, upon a visit to a gentleman of fortune, whom I shall call Attalus. I had never seen him fince his accession to a very confiderable estate; and as I have met with few acquaintance in life of more pleasant qualities, or a more social temper than Attalus, before this great property unexpectedly devolved upon him, I flattered myself that fortune had in this instance bestowed her favours upon one who deserved them; and that I should find in Attalus's society the pleasing gratification of feeing all those maxims, which I had hitherto revolved in my mind as matter of speculation only, now brought forth into actual practice; for amongst all my observations upon human affairs, few have given me greater and more frequent disappointment, than the almost general abuse of riches. Those rules of liberal economy, which would make wealth a bleffing to it's owner and to all he were connected with, seem so obvious to me, who have no other interest in the subject than what meditation affords, that I am apt to wonder how men can make fuch such false estimates of the true enjoyments of life, and wander out of the way of happiness, to which the heart and understanding feem to point the road too plainly to admit of a mistake.

With these sanguine expectations I pursued my journey towards the magnificent feat of Attalus, and in my approach it was with pleasure I remarked the beauty of the country about it; I recollected how much he used to be devoted to rural exercises, and I found him situated in the very spot most favorable to his beloved amusements; the foil was clean, the hills easy, and the downs were chequered with thick copses, that seemed the finest nurseries in nature for a sportsman's game: When I entered upon his ornamented demesne, nothing could be more enchanting than the scenery; the ground was finely shaped into hill and vale; the horizon every where bold and romantic, and the hand of art had evidently improved the workmanship of nature with confummate taste; upon the broken declivity stately groves of beech were happily disposed; the lawn was of the finest verdure gently floping from the house; a rapid river of the pureft transparency ran through it and fell over a rocky channel into a noble lake within view of the mansion; behind this upon the northern and eastern Banks I could difcern the tops tops of very stately trees, that sheltered a spacious enclosure of pleasure-ground and gardens, with all the delicious accompaniments of hothouses and conservatories.

It was a scene to feize the imagination with rapture; a poet's language would have run spontaneoufly into metre at the fight of it; "What a subject," said I within myself, " is "here present for those ingenious bards, who " have the happy talent of defcribing nature in "her fairest forms! Oh! that I could plant the "delightful author of The Task in this very spot! Perhaps, whilft his eye-in a fine phrenfy roll"ing-glanced over this enchanting prospect, "he might burst forth into the following, or "something like the following, rhapsody-"

Bleft above men, if he perceives and feels
The bleffings he is heir to, He! to whom
His provident forefathers have bequeath'd
In this fair district of their native ifle
A free inheritance, compact and clear.
How sweet the vivifying dawn to him,
Who with a fond paternal eye can trace
Beloved scenes, where rivers, groves and lawns
Rife at the touch of his Orphéan hand,

And Nature, like a docile child, repays

Her kind disposer's care! Master and friend
Of all that blooms or breathes within the verge

Of this wide-ftretcht horizon, he surveys

His upland pastures white with fleecy flocks,

Rich meadows dappled o'er with grazing herds
And vallies waving thick with golden grain.
Where can the world display a fairer scene?
And what has Nature for the fons of men
Better provided than this happy ifle?

Mark! how she's girded by her watery zone,
Whilft all the neighb'ring continent is trench'd
And furrow'd with the ghastly seams of war:
Barriers and forts and arm'd battalions stand
On the fierce confines of each rival state,
Jealous to guard, or eager to invade;d
Between their hoftile camps a field of blood,
Behind them desolation void and drear,
Where at the summons of the surly drum
The rifing and the setting fun reflects

"

122

Nought but the gleam of arms, now here, now there

Flashing amain, as the bright phalanx moves:
Wafteful and wide the blank in Nature's map,
And far far distant where the scene begins,
Of human habitation, thinly group'd

Over the meager earth; for there no youth,
No sturdy peasant, who with limbs and strength
Might fill the gaps of battle, dares approach;
Old age instead, with weak and trembling hand
Feebly folicits the indignant foil
For a precarious meal, poor at the best.

Oh, Albion! oh, blest isle, on whose white cliffs Peace builds her halcyon nest, thou, who embrac'd By the uxorious ocean sit'st secure,

Smiling and gay and crown'd with every wreath,
That Art can fashion or rich Commerce waft
To deck thee like a bride, compare these scenes

With pity not with scorn, and let thy heart,
Not wanton with profperity, but warm

VOL. IV.

C

With

With grateful adoration, send up praise
To the great Giver-thence thy bleilings come.
The soft luxurious nations will complain
Of thy rude wintry clime, and chide the winds
That ruffle their fine forms; trembling they view
The boisterous barrier that defends thy coast,
Nor dare to pass it till their pilot bird,
The winter-fleeping swallow, points the way;
But envy not their funs, and sigh not thou
For the clear azure of their cloudless skies;
The same strong blast, that beds the knotted oak
Firm in his clay-bound cradle, nerves the arm
Of the stout hind, who fells him to the ground.
These are the manly offspring of our isle;
Their's are the pure delights of rural life,
Freedom their birth-right and their dwelling peace;
The vine, that mantles o'er their cottage roof,
Gives them a shade no tyrant dares to spoil.

Mark! how the sturdy peasant breasts the storm,
The white snow fleeting o'er his brawny cheft;
He heeds it not, but carols as he goes
Some jocund measure or love-ditty, foon
In sprightlier key and happier accent fung
To the kind wench at home, whose ruddy cheeks
Shall thaw the icy winter on his lips,
And melt his frozen features into joy.
But who, that ever heard the hunter's shout,
When the shrill fox-hound doubles on the scent,
Which of you, fons and fathers of the chace,
Which of your hardy, bold, adventurous band
Will pine and murmur for Italian skies?
Hark! from the covert-fide your game is view'd!
Music, which none but British dryads hear,
Shouts, which no foreign echoes can repeat,
Ring thro' the hollow wood and sweep the vale.

Now,