At once we rush into the midst of June,
And find Alcanor at the noon of day
Laborious in his garden. The warm sun
Is clouded, and the fluctuating breeze
Calls him from nicer labour, to attend
The vegetable progress. Mark we now

A thousand great effects which spring from toil,
Unsung before. The martial pea observe,

In column square arrang'd, line after line Successive; the gay bean, her hindmost ranks Stript of their blossoms; the thick-scatter'd bed Of soporific lettuce; the green hill

Cover'd with cucumbers. All these

my muse Disdains not. She can stray well-pleas'd, and pluck The od❜rous leaf of marj'ram, balm, or mint; Then smile to think how near the neighbourhood Of rue and wormwood, in her thoughtful eye Resembling life, which ever thus brings forth In quick succession bitter things and sweet. Nor scorns she to observe the thriving sage,

Which well becomes the garden of a clerk; The wholesome camomile, and fragrant thyme. All these thy pains, Alcanor, propagate, Support, and feed. Let the big Doctor laugh, Who only toils to satisfy the calls

Of appetite insatiate, and retires,

Good honest soul, offended at the world,
In pure devotion, to his pipe and bowl,
And whiffs and sleeps his idle hours away.
Yes, let him laugh. A life of labour yields
Sweeter enjoyment than his gouty limbs
Have sense to feel. It gives the body health,
Agility, and strength, and makes it proof
Against the fang of pain. It stays the course
Of prodigal contagion, scares away

The scythe of time, and turns the dart of death:
And hence the mind unwonted force derives ;
Recruited oft by labour, to her work
Strong as a giant she returns, and rolls
Her Sisyphæan ball with wondrous ease
Up to the mountain's top. It is the soul
Of poesy and wit. Then follow still

The happy task, nor scorn to feel, Alcanor,
How passing grateful 'tis to reap the fruits
Of willing toil. The board of industry,
By her own labour frugally supplied,

Gives to her food an admirable zest,

Unknown to indolence, which half asleep
With palateless indifference surveys

The smoaking feast of plenty.

I have stray'd

Wild as the mountain bee, and cull'd a sweet
From ev'ry flow'r that beautified my way.
Now shall my serious Muse with solemn tone
Begin her friendly lecture to the fair.

Unwedded maiden, is there yet a man

For wisdom eminent? seek him betimes.

He will not shun thee, though thy frequent foot Wear out the pavement at his door.

Be sedulous to win the man of sense;

Ye fair,

And fly the empty fool. Shame the dull boy, Who leaves at college what he learn'd at school,

And whips his academic hours away,

Cas'd in unwrinkled buckskin and tight boots,
More studious of his hunter than his books.

Oh! had ye sense to see what powder'd apes
Ye oft admire, the idle boy for shame
Would lay his racket and his mace aside,

And love his tutor and his desk.

Time was

When ev'ry woman was a judge of arms
And military exploit: 'twas an age

Of admirable heroes. And time was

When women dealt in Hebrew, Latin, Greek;
No dunces then, but all were deeply learn'd.
I do not wish to see the female eye
Waste all its lustre at the midnight lamp;
I do not wish to see the female cheek
Grow pale with application. Let your care
Be to preserve your beauty; that secur'd,
Improve the judgment, that the loving fair
May have an eye to know the man of worth,
And keep secure the jewel of her charms
From him who ill deserves. Let the spruce beau,

That lean, sweet-scented, and palav'rous fool,

Who talks of honour and his sword, and plucks
The man who dares advise him by the nose;
That puny thing which hardly crawls about,
Reduc'd by wine and women, yet drinks on,
And vapours loudly o'er his glass, resolv'd
To tell a tale of nothing, and outswear
The northern tempest; let that fool, I say,
Look for a wife in vain, and live despis'd.

I would that all the fair ones of this isle Were such as one I knew. Peace to her soul, She lives no more. And I a genius need

To paint her as she was.

Most like, methinks,

That amiable maid the poet drew

With angel pencil, and baptiz'd her Portia.
Happy the man, and happy sure he was,
So wedded. Bless'd with her, he wander'd not
To seek for happiness; 'twas his at home.
How often have I chain'd my truant tongue,
To hear the music of her sober words!

How often have I wonder'd at the grace
Instruction borrow'd from her eye
and cheek!