But canst at home in thy securer rest,

Live with un-bought provision blest;

Free from proud porches or their guilded roofs,
'Mongst lowing herds and solid hoofs:

Along the curled woods and painted meads,
Through which a serpent river leads

To some cool courteous shade, which he calls his,
And makes sleep softer than it is!

Or if thou list the night in watch to break,
A-bed canst hear the loud stag speak,

In spring oft roused for their master's sport,
Who for it makes thy house his court;

Or with thy friends, the heart of all the year,
Divid'st upon the lesser deer;

In autumn, at the partrich mak'st a flight,
And giv'st thy gladder guests the sight;
And in the winter hunt'st the flying hare,
More for thy exercise than fare;

While all that follows, their glad ears apply
To the full greatness of the cry:

Or hawking at the river or the bush,

Or shooting at the greedy thrush,

Thou dost with some delight the day out-wear,
Although the coldest of the year!

The whil'st the several seasons thou hast seen
Of flow'ry fields, of copses green,

The mowed meadows, with the fleeced sheep,
And feasts that either shearers keep;
The ripened ears yet humble in their height,
And furrows laden with their weight;
The apple-harvest that doth longer last;
The hogs return'd home fat from mast;
The trees cut out in log; and those boughs made
A fire now, that lent a shade!

}

Thus Pan and Sylvan having had their rites,
Comus puts in for new delights;

And fills thy open hall with mirth and cheer,
As if in Saturn's reign it were;

Apollo's harp and Hermes' lyre resound,
Nor are the Muses strangers found:
The rout of rural folk come thronging in,
(Their rudeness then is thought no sin)
Thy noblest spouse affords them welcome grace;
And the great heroes of her race

Sit mixt with loss of state or reverence.
Freedom doth with degree dispense.

The jolly wassall walks the often round,

And in their cups their cares are drown'd:

They think not then which side the cause shall leese,

Nor how to get the lawyer fees.

Such, and no other was that age of old,

Which boasts t' have had the head of gold.

And such since thou canst make thine own content,

Strive, Wroth, to live long innocent.

Let others watch in guilty arms, and stand

The fury of a rash command,

Go enter breaches, meet the cannon's rage,

That they may sleep with scars in age.

And show their feathers shot and colours torn,

And brag that they were therefore born.
Let this man sweat, and wrangle at the bar

For every price in every jar

And change possessions oftener with his breath,
Than either money, war or death:

Let him, than hardest sires, more disinherit,

And each where boast it as his merit,

To blow up orphans, widows, and their states;

And think his power doth equal Fate's.

Let that go heap a mass of wretched wealth,
Purchas'd by rapine, worse than stealth,
And brooding o'er it sit, with broadest eyes,
Not doing good, scarce when he dies.
Let thousands more go flatter vice, and win,
By being organs to great sin,

Get place and honour, and be glad to keep
The secrets, that shall breake their sleep:
And, so they ride in purple, eat in plate,
Though poyson, think it a great fate.

But thou, my Wroth, if I can truth apply,
Shalt neither that, nor this envy:

Thy peace is made; and, when man's state is well,

'Tis better, if he there can dwell.

God wisheth none should wrack on a strange shelf;

To him man 's dearer than t' himself.
And, howsoever we may think things sweet,
He alwayes gives what he knows meet;
Which who can use is happy: such be thou.
Thy morning's and thy evening's vow

Be thanks to him, and earnest prayer, to find
A body sound, with sounder mind ;

To do thy country service, thy self right;

That neither want do thee affright,

Nor death; but when thy latest sand is spent,
Thou mayst think life a thing but lent."

Of all the poetical Epistles of this period, however, that of Daniel to the Countess of Cumberland, for weight of thought and depth of feeling, bears the palm. The reader will not peruse this effusion with less interest or pleasure, from knowing that it is a favourite with Mr. Wordsworth.

"He that of such a height hath built his mind,

And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,
As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame
Of his resolved pow'rs; nor all the wind
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong

His settled peace, or to disturb the same:
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey!

And with how free an eye doth he look down
Upon these lower regions of turmoil,
Where all the storms of passions mainly beat
On flesh and blood: where honour, pow'r, renown,
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil;

Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet,
As frailty doth; and only great doth seem
To little minds, who do it so esteem.

He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars
But only as on stately robberies;
Where evermore the fortune that prevails
Must be the right: the ill-succeeding mars
The fairest and the best-fac'd enterprize.
Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails:
Justice, he sees (as if seduced) still

Conspires with pow'r, whose cause must not be ill.
He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold
As are the passions of uncertain man.
Who puts it in all colours, all attires,

To serve his ends, and make his courses hold.
He sees, that let deceit work what it can,
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires;
That the all-guiding Providence doth yet
All disappoint, and mocks this smoke of wit.

Nor is he mov'd with all the thunder-cracks
Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow

Of pow'r, that proudly sits on others' crimes:
Charg'd with more crying sins than those he checks.
The storms of sad confusion, that may grow
Up in the present for the coming times,
Appal not him; that hath no side at all,
But of himself, and knows the worst can fall.
Although his heart (so near ally'd to earth)
Cannot but pity the perplexed state
Of troublous and distress'd mortality,
That thus make way unto the ugly birth
Of their own sorrows, and do still beget
Affliction upon imbecility:

Yet seeing thus the course of things must run,
He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done.
And whilst distraught ambition compasses,
And is encompass'd; whilst as craft deceives,
And is deceiv'd; whilst man doth ransack man,
And builds on blood, and rises by distress;
And th' inheritance of desolation leaves
To great expecting hopes; he looks thereon,
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye,
And bears no venture in impiety."

Michael Drayton's Poly-Olbion is a work of great length and of unabated freshness and vigour in itself, though the monotony of the subject tires the reader. He describes each place with the accuracy of a topographer, and the enthusiasm of a poet, as if his Muse were the very genius loci. His Heroical Epistles are also excellent. He has a few lighter pieces, but none of exquisite beauty or grace. His mind is a rich marly soil that produces an abundant harvest, and repays