Some note of Nature's music from his lips,
And covetous of Shakspeare's beauty, seen
In ev'ry flash of his far-beaming eye.
Nor taste alone and well-contriv'd display
Suffice to give the marshall'd ranks the grace
Of their complete effect. Much yet remains
Unsung, and many cares are yet behind,
And more laborious; cares on which depends
Their vigour, injur'd soon, not soon restor❜d.
The soil must be renew'd, which often wash'd
Loses it's treasure of salubrious salts,

And disappoints the roots; the slender roots
Close interwoven, where they meet the vase
Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch
Must fly before the knife; the wither'd leaf
Must be detach'd, and where it strews the floor
Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else
Contagion, and disseminating death.

Discharge but these kind offices, (and who
Would spare, that loves them, offices like these?)
Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleas'd,
The scent regal'd, each odorif'rous leaf,
Each op'ning blossom, freely breathes abroad
It's gratitude, and thanks him with it's sweets.

So manifold; all pleasing in their kind,
All healthful, are th' employs of rural life,
Reiterated as the wheel of time

Runs round; still ending and beginning still.
Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll,
That softly swell'd and gaily dress'd appears
A flow'ry island from the dark green lawn
Emerging, must be deem'd a labour due

To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste.
Here also grateful mixture of well-match'd
And sorted hues (each giving each relief,
And by contrasted beauty shining more)

Is needful. Strength may wield the pond'rous spade,
May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home
But elegance, chief grace the garden shows,
And most attractive, is the fair result

Of thought, the creature of a polish'd mind.
Without it all is gothic as the scene,

To which th' insipid citizen resorts

Near yonder heath; where Industry mispent,
But proud of his uncouth ill-chosen task,

Has made a Heav'n on Earth; with suns and moons

Of close-ramm'd stones has charg'd th' encumber'd

soil,

ARE WEDDED THUS, LIKE BEAUTY TO OLD AGE

FOR INT REST SAKE, THE LIVING TO THE DEAD

Book III.

LONDON, PUBLISHED JUNE 1.1810. BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY.

And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust.

He therefore, who would see his flow'rs dispos'd

Sightly and in just order, ere he gives

The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds,
Forecasts the future whole; that when the scene
Shall break into it's preconceiv'd display,
Each for itself, and all as with one voice
Conspiring, may attest his bright design.
Nor even then, dismissing as perform'd
His pleasant work, may he suppose it done.
Few self supported flow'rs endure the wind
Uninjur'd, but expect th' upholding aid
Of the smooth-shaven prop, and, neatly tied,
Are wedded thus like beauty to old age,
For int❜rest sake, the living to the dead.

Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffus'd
And lowly creeping, modest, and yet fair,
Like virtue, thriving most where little seen:
Some more aspiring catch the neighbour shrub
With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch,
Else unadorn'd with many a gay festoon
And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well
The strength they borrow with the grace they lend.
All hate the rank society of weeds,