Classic Poem

IN AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND .

From noisy bustle, from contention free,
Far from the busy town I careless loll,
Not like swain Tityrus, or the bards of old,
Under a beechen, venerable shade;
But on a furzy heath where blooming broom
And thorny whins the spacious plains adorn;
Here health sits smiling on my youthful brow;
For ere the sun beams forth his earliest ray,
And all the east with yellow radiance crowns;
Ere dame Aurora, from her purple bed,
'Gins with her kindling blush to paint the sky,
The soaring lark, morn's cheerful harbinger,
And linnet joyful flutt'ring from the bush,
Stretch their small throats in vocal melody,
To hail the dawn, and drowsy sleep exhale
From man, frail man! on downy softness stretch'd.
Such pleasing scenes Edina cannot boast;
For there the slothful slumber seal'd mine eyes,
Till nine successive strokes the clock had knell'd.
There not the lark, but fishwives' noisy screams,
And inundations plung'd from ten house height,
With smell more fragrant than the spicy groves
Of Indus, fraught with all her orient stores,
Rous'd me from sleep; not sweet refreshing sleep,
But sleep infested with the burning sting
Of bug infernal, who the live-long night
With direst suction sipp'd my liquid gore.
There gloomy vapours in our zenith reign'd,
And fill'd with irksome pestilence the air.
There ling'ring sickness held his feeble court,
Rejoicing in the havock he had made;
And death, grim death! with all his ghastly train,
Watch'd the broke slumbers of Edina's sons.
Hail, rosy health! thou pleasing antidote
'Gainst troubling cares! all hail, these rural fields,
Those winding rivulets and verdant shades,
Where thou the heav'n-born Goddess deign'st to dwell!
With thee the hind, upon his simple fare,
Lives cheerful, and from Heav'n no more demands.
But, ah! how vast, how terrible the change
With him who night by night in sickness pines!
Him nor his splendid equipage can please,
Nor all the pageantry the world can boast;
Nay, not the consolation of his friends
Can aught avail: his hours are anguish all,
Nor cease till envious death hath clos'd the scene.
But, Carlos, if we court this maid celestial,
Whether we thro' meand'ring rivers stray,
Or 'midst the city's jarring noise remain,
Let temperance, health's blyth concomitant,
To our desires and appetites set bounds,
Else, cloy'd at last, we surfeit every joy;
Our slack'ned nerves reject their wonted spring;
We reap the fruits of our unkindly lusts,
And feebly totter to the silent grave.