On Walking through a Lane

Here when first the Infant pass'd,
In the Mother's arms it lay;
Time nor limp'd, nor flew too fast,
When the Boy could hither stray.

Youth was next — then came the Man ;
Still I lov'd and bless'd the scene.
Here in Age it was a fan,
Breathing spirits fresh and keen.

Gifted Parent! Wealth from thee
Is the debt thy Offspring owes;
For the heart from anger free,
And the Muse that loves repose.

Whether British , or of Rome ,
Is the harp that I explore;
It can chase the temper's gloom,
And the cheering sun restore.

I have seen thee, when retir'd
Hither from the toils of State,
By the landscape re-inspir'd: —
Fancy met thee at the gate.

Not a passing theme was there,
Which thy genius could refuse;
All was, like Belinda's hair,
Grac'd and polish'd by the Muse.

This (and wealth to me) was thine;
It was left me — it 's my own.
This inheritance is mine: —
Kings, retain the lineal Throne!

Frown, ye Sages of the Law!
On your Truant's follies preach!
He can living currents draw
From a well you cannot reach!
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