lities, or a more social temper than Attalus, before this great property unexpectedly devolved upon him, I flattered myself that fortune had in this instance bestowed her favours upon one who deserved them; and that I should find in Attalus's society the pleasing gratification of seeing all those maxims, which I had hitherto revolved in my mind as matter of speculation only, now brought forth into actual practice; for amongst all my observations upon human affairs, few have given me greater and more frequent disappointment, than the almost general abuse of riches. Those rules of liberal economy, which would make wealth a blessing to its owner and to all he were connected with, seem so obvious to me, who have no other interest in the subject than what meditation affords, that I am apt to wonder how men can make such false estimates of the true enjoyments of life, and wander out of the way of happiness, to which the heart and understanding seem to point the road too plainly to admit of a mistake.

With these sanguine expectations I pursued my journey towards the magnificent seat of Attalus, and in my approach it was with pleasure I remarked the beauty of the country about it; I recollected how much he used to be devoted to rural exercises, and I found him situated in the very spot most favourable to his beloved amusements; the soil was clean, the hills easy, and the downs were chequered with thick copses, that seemed the finest nurseries in nature for a sportsman's game. When I entered upon his ornamented demesne, nothing could be more enchanting than the scenery; the ground was finely shaped into hill and vale; the horizon every where bold and romantic, and the hand of art had evidently improved the workmanship of nature with consummate taste; upon the broken declivity stately groves of beech were happily disposed; the lawn

was of the finest verdure gently sloping from the house; a rapid river of the purest transparency ran through it, and fell over a rocky channel into a noble lake within view of the mansion; behind this upon the northern and eastern flanks I could discern the tops of very stately trees, that sheltered a spacious enclosure of pleasure-ground and gardens, with all the delicious accompaniments of hot-houses and conservatories.

It was a scene to seize the imagination with rapture: a poet's language would have run spontaneously into metre at the sight of it: What a subject,' said I within myself, is here present for those ingenious bards, who have the happy talent of describing nature in her fairest forms! Oh! that I could plant the delightful author of The Task in this very spot! perhaps whilst his eye-in a fine frenzy rolling-glanced over this enchanting prospect, he might burst forth into the following, or something like the following rhapsody—'

Blest above men, if he perceives and feels
The blessings he is heir to. He! to whom
His provident forefathers have bequeathed
In this fair district of their native isle
A free inheritance, compact and clear.
How sweet the vivifying dawn to him,
Who with a fond paternal eye can trace
Beloved scenes, where rivers, groves, and lawns
Rise at the touch of the Orphean hand,
And Nature, like a docile child, repays
Her kind disposer's care! Master and friend
Of all that blooms or breathes within the verge
Of this wide-stretcht horizon, he surveys
His upland pastures white with fleecy flocks,
Rich meadows dappled o'er with grazing herds,
And valleys waving thick with golden grain.

Where can the world display a fairer scene?
And what has Nature for the sons of men
Better provided than this happy isle?
Mark! how she's girded by her watery zone,

Whilst all the neighb'ring continent is trench'd
And furrow'd with the ghastly seams of war:
Barriers and forts and arm'd battalions stand
On the fierce confines of each rival state,
Jealous to guard, or eager to invade ;
Between their hostile camps a field of blood,
Behind them desolation void and drear,
Where at the summons of the surly drum
The rising and the setting sun reflects

Nought but the gleam of arms, now here, now there
Flashing amain, as the bright phalanx moves :
Wasteful and wide the blank in Nature's map,
And far, far distant where the scene begins
Of human habitation, thinly group'd
Over the meagre earth; for there no youth
No sturdy peasant, who with limbs and strength
Might fill the gaps of battle, dares approach;
Old age instead, with weak and trembling hand,
Feebly solicits the indignant soil

For a precarious meal, poor at the best.

Oh, Albion! oh, blest isle, on whose white cliffs Peace builds her halcyon nest, thou, who embrac'd By the uxorious ocean sit'st secure,

Smiling and gay and crown'd with every wreath,
That Art can fashion or rich Commerce waft
To deck thee like a bride; compare these scenes
With pity not with scorn, and let thy heart,
Not wanton with prosperity, but warm
With grateful adoration, send up praise
To the great Giver-thence thy blessings come.
The soft luxurious nations will complain
Of thy rude wintry clime, and chide the winds
That ruffle their fine forms; trembling they view
The boisterous barrier that defends thy coast,
Nor dare to pass it till their pilot bird,
The winter-sleeping swallow, points the way;
But envy not their suns, and sigh not thou
For the clear azure of their cloudless skies;
The same strong blast, that beds the knotted oak
Firm in his clay-bound cradle, nerves the arın
Of the stout hind, who fells him to the ground.
These are the manly offspring of our isle;
Theirs are the pure delights of rural life,
Freedom their birth-right and their dwelling peace
The vine, that mantles o'er their cottage roof,
Gives them a shade no tyrant dares to spoil.

Mark! how the sturdy peasant breasts the storm,
The white snow sleeting o'er his brawny chest;
He heeds it not, but carols as he goes

Some jocund measure or love-ditty, soon
In sprightlier key and happier accent sung
To the kind wench at home, whose ruddy cheeks
Shall thaw the icy winter on his lips,
And melt his frozen features into joy.

But who, that ever heard the hunter's shout,
When the shrill fox-hound doubles on the scent,
Which of you, sons and fathers of the chase,
Which of your hardy, bold, adventurous band
Will pine and murmur for Italian skies?
Hark! from the covert-side your game is view'd!
Music, which none but British dryads hear,
Shouts, which no foreign echoes can repeat,
Ring through the hollow wood and sweep the vale.
Now, now, ye joyous sportsmen, ye, whose hearts
Are unison'd to the extatic cry

Of the full pack, now give your steeds the rein!
Yours is the day-nine was, and is no more:
Yet ever as I hear you in the wind,

Though chill'd and hovering o'er my winter hearth,
Forth, like some Greenwich veteran, if chance
The conqu'ring name of Rodney meets his ear,
Forth I must come to share the glad'ning sound,
To shew my scars and boast of former feats.

They say our clime's inconstant, changeful-True! It gives the lie to all astrology,

Makes the diviner mad and almost mocks
Philosophy itself; Cameleon-like

Our sky puts on all colours, blushing now,
Now lowering like a froward pettish child;
This hour a zephyr, and the next a storm,
Angry and pleas'd by fits-Yet take our clime,
Take it for all in all and day by day

Through all the varying seasons of the year,
For the mind's vigour and the body's strength,
Where is its rival?-Beauty is its own:
Not the voluptuous region of the Nile,
Not aromatic India's spicy breath,

Nor evening breeze from Tagus, Rhone, or Loire
Can tinge the maiden cheek with bloom so fresh.
Here too, if exercise and temperance call,
Health shall obey their summons; every fount,
Each rilling stream conveys it to our lips;

In every zephyr we inhale her breath;
The shepherd tracks her in the morning dew,
As o'er the grassy down or to the heath
Streaming with fragrance he conducts his flock.
But oh! defend me from the baneful east,
Screen me ye groves! ye interposing hills,
Rise up and cover me! Agues and rheums,
All Holland's marshes strike me in the gale!
Like Egypt's blight his breath is all alive:
His very dew is poison, honey-sweet,
Teeming with putrefaction; in his fog
The locust and the caterpillar swarm,
And vegetable nature falls before them:
Open, all quarters else, and blow upon me,
But bar that gate, O regent of the winds!
It gives the food that melancholy dotes on,
The quick'ner that provokes the slanderer's spleen,
Makes green the eye of Jealousy, and feeds
The swelling gorge of Envy till it bursts:
"Tis now the poet's unpropitious hour;
The student trims his midnight lamp in vain,
And beauty fades upon the painter's eye:
Hang up thy pallet, Romney! and convene
The gay companions of thy social board;
Apelles' self would throw his pencil by,
And swear the skies conspir'd against his art.

But what must Europe's softer climes endure,
Thy coast, Calabria! or the neighbouring isle,
Of ancient Ceres once the fruitful seat?
Where is the bloom of Enna's flowery field,
Mellifluous Hybla, and the golden vale
Of rich Panormus, when the fell Siroc,
Hot from the furnace of the Lybian sands,
Breathes all its plagues upon them? Hapless isle,
Why must I call to mind thy past renown?
Is it this desolating blast alone

That strips thy verdure? Is it in the gulf
Of yawning earthquakes that thy glory sinks?
Or hath the flood that thund'ring Etna pours
From her convuls'd and flaming entrails whelm'd
In one wide ruin every noble spark
Of pristine virtue, genius, wisdom, wit?
Ah no the elements are not in fault;
Nature is still the same: 'Tis not the blast
From Afric's burning sands, it is the breath
Of Spain's despotic master lays thee low;