YE gentle Pow'rs, (if any such there be,
And, if there be not, 'tis a sweet mistake
To think there be) that day by day, unseen,
Where souls, unanimous and link'd in love,
In sober converse spend the vacant hour,
Hover above, and in the cup of life

A cordial pour which all its bitter drowns,
And gives the hasty minutes as they pass
Unwonted fragrance; come and aid my song.
In that clear fountain of eternal love

Which flows for ay at the right hand of him,
The great Incomprehensible ye serve,
Dip my advent❜rous pen, that nothing vile,
Of the chaste eye or ear unworthy, may
In this my early song be seen or heard.

Sing then, my Muse, the rural Curate's steps, His modes of living, manners, and pursuits. One year the limits of thy song confine,

From early spring till spring again return.

Then let the bard begin, when Winter yet Powders the lawn with snow, and on our eaves Hangs the chaste icicle. Be that the time, When the tir'd sportsman lays his gun aside, Nor wages ineffectual war again

On partridge race. The day St. Valentine,
When maids are brisk, and at the break of day
Start up, and turn their pillows, curious all
To know what happy swain the fates provide
A mate for life. Then follows thick discharge
Of true-love knots and sonnets nicely penn'd;
But, to the learned critic's eye, no verse,
But prose distracted, galloping away
Like yelping cur with kettle at his tail.
Forgive the thought, ye maids of poesy,
And be as kind as fair. Critics may laugh
And yet approve; and I your pains applaud,
Though short of excellence. I love the maid
Who has ambition, and betrays a mind

Of active and ingenious turn; who scorns
Only to know what fashion and the

age

Require, and can do more than flirt her fan,

Read novels, dance with grace, sing playhouse airs,
Speak scandal, daub or vellum or her face,
Retail some half-a-dozen terms in French,

And twice as many English, and dispatch
By every post a tedious manuscript,

Which to translate would crack the very brain
Of Arabic Professor. O ye fair,

Ye were design'd for nobler flights than these;
Nature on you as well as us bestow'd
The good capacity. And though to us
She gave the nicer judgment, yet she hid
The sweet defect in you, with better skill
To clothe the fair idea, keener eye,

And quicker apprehension. 'Tis in

you

Imagination glows in all her strength,
Gay as the robe of spring, and we delight
To see you pluck her blossoms, and compose
The cheerful nosegay for the swain you love.
What if Alcanor's self should not disdain
To imitate your toils, but sometimes hang
Ill-woven chaplets on Maria's brow,

Which needs no ornament to make it please

With sweeter grace. The hour so spent shall live,

Not unapplauded, in the book of Heav'n.

For dear and precious as the moments are
Permitted man, they are not all for deeds
Of active virtue. Give we none to vice,
And Heav'n will not strict reparation ask
For many a summer's day and winter's eve
So spent as best amuses us. Alas!

If He that made us were extreme to mark

The trifled hour, what human soul could live ?
We trifle all, and he who best deserves

Is but a trifler. What art thou whose eye
Follows my pen, or what am I that write?
Both triflers. 'Tis a trifling world, from him
Who banquets daintily in sleeves of lawn,
To him who starves upon a country cure:
From him who is the pilot of a state,

To him who begs, and rather begs than works.

Then blame we not Alcanor for his pains, Nor think him misemploy'd, what time he sits Eager to clothe the new-born thought, and wooes

The maiden Meditation, hard to win,
For terms of apt significance. Nor then,
When Winter, better pleas'd, puts on a smile,
And round his garden at high noon he walks,
Not unattended, and the daffodil

And early snowdrop welcomes, pensive flow'rg.
Nor needs he then excuse, what time he starts,
To mark the progress of the morning sun,
As northward from his equinox he steers,
And once again brings on the glorious year.
Sweet are the graces which the steps attend
Of early morning, when, the clouded brow
Of winter smooth'd, up from her orient couch
She springs, and, like a maid betroth'd puts on
Her bridal suit, and with an ardent smile
Comes forth to greet her lover. To my eye,
As well as thine, Alcanor, grateful 'tis,

Ay passing sweet, to mark the cautious pace
Of slow-returning Spring, e'en from the time
When first the matted apricot unfolds

His tender bloom, till the full orchard glows; From when the gooseberry first shews a leaf,