164 AIvEXANDER WIlvSON : POEJT-NATURAWST 



Come then, dear sir, the noisy town forsake. 



With me awhile these rural joys partake ; 



Come, leave your books, your pens, your studious 



cares, 

 Come, see the bliss that God for man prepares. 

 My shelt'ring bow'rs, with honeysuckles white. 

 My fishy pools, my cataracts invite ; 

 My vines for you their clusters thick suspend, 

 My juicy peaches swell but for my friend; 

 For him who joins, with elegance and art. 

 The brightest talents to the warmest heart. 

 Here as with me at morn you range the wood, 

 Or headlong plunge amid the crystal flood. 

 More vig'rous life your firmer nerves shall brace, 

 A ruddier glow shall wanton o'er your face, 

 A livelier glance re-animate your eye. 

 Each anxious thought, each fretting care shall fly. 

 For here, through every field and rustling grove. 

 Sweet Peace and rosy Health for ever rove. 



Come, then, O come ! your burning streets forego, 



Your lanes and wharves, where winds infectious blow. 



Where sweeps and oystermen eternal growl. 



Carts, crowds, and coaches harrow up the soul. 



For deep, majestic woods, and op'ning glades. 



And shining pools, and awe-inspiring shades ; 



Where fragrant shrubs perfume the air around. 



And bending orchards kiss the flow'ry ground. 



And luscious berries spread a feast for Jove, 



And golden cherries stud the boughs above; 



Amid these various sweets thy rustic friend 



Shall to each woodland haunt thy steps attend. 



His solitary walks, his noontide bowers. 



The old associates of his lonely hours; 



While Friendship's converse, gen'rous and sincere. 



Exchanging every joy and every tear. 



Shall warm each heart with such an ardent glow, 



As wealth's whole pageantry could ne'er bestow. 



