10 UENllY KIKKE WlliTt's POEMS. 



Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight. 

 And nature bids for him her treasures flow, 

 And gives to him alone, his bless to know, 

 Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms ? 

 Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms ? 

 And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath, 

 Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death ? 

 Could he who thus to vile enjoyments clings. 

 Know what calm joy from purer sources springs, 

 Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife, 

 The harmless pleasures of a harmless life. 

 No more his soul would pant for joys impure, 

 The deadly chalice would no more allure, 

 But the sweet potion he was wont to sip, 

 Would turn to poison on his conscious lip. 



Fair Nature ! thee, in all thy varied charms, 

 Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms : 

 Thine are the sweets which never, never sate. 

 Thine still remain, through all the storms of fate. 

 Though not for me 'twas Heaven's divine comraaiid 

 To roll in acres of paternal land. 

 Yet still, ray lot is blest, while I enjoy 

 Thine opening beauties with a lover s eye. 



Happy Is he, who, though the cup of bliss 



Has ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss, 



Who, still in abject poverty, or pain, 



Can count with pleasure what small joys remain : 



Though were his sight convey'd from zone to zone, 



He would not find one spot of ground his own, 



Yet, as he looks around, he cries with glee, 



These bounding prospects all were made for mo : 



For nie, yon waving fields their burthen bear, 



For me, yon labourer guides the shining share, 



AVhile happy I, in idle ease recline. 



And mark the glorious visions as they shine. 



This is the charm, by sages often told, 



Converting all it touches into gold. 



Coiitent can soothe, where'er by fortune I'lace i, 



