Of Trent, whose tranquil current roves
Thro' fertile meads, and tuneful groves;
Where health inhales the spicy gale,
And busy commerce spreads the sail;
What time the Spring with beauties crown'd,
And Flora pours her gifts around,

The cowslip sweet with head reclin'd,
The wild rose waving in the wind,

The primrose pale that courts the shade,
The snow-drop meek in white array'd,
The humble vi'let's purple bloom
That sheds around a rich perfume,
With all the joys an honest heart
Can to such scenes as these impart.
Fir'd by the thought, my rural muse
With joy the much-lov'd theme pursues,
Tho' Winter now, and chilling rains,
Ravage the desolated plains.

Kelham's sweet shades no more delight,
Or Staythorpe's banks my steps invite,
Where health and pleasure crown'd the day,
And first inspir'd the trifling lay,

To paint the rural harmless joys

Of him escap'd from crowds and noise;

With patient skill and nice deceit,

To tempt the trout from his retreat;
The pike voracious to betray,
And drag the captive into day;
To lure the chub, and wary bream,
With lesser tenants of the stream:

These happy hours I pensive trace,
Now different cares usurp their place.

Alone I sit the live-long day

With books to pass my time away,
But books have lost their former charms,
And war no more with dire alarms

Inspires a theme for social chat,

And politics are dull and flat.

To change the scene I scour my gun,
And rise before the morning sun,
Intent the rural war prepare,

'Gainst partridge, snipe, or timid hare,
And range the country far from home,
Where Newark sportsmen seldom come;
Thro' stubble fields, and miry lanes,
Rough moors, and unfrequented plains,
Where furze, with yellow blossoms crown'd,
And purple heath usurp the ground,
Mock the vain skill of cultur'd toil,
To fertilize the barren soil.

The dogs, sagacious, beat the ground,
But neither hare or bird is found
To bless the toil-my spirits flag,
And useless hangs the empty bag.
Yet no harsh cares my breast invade,
As slow I try the woodland glade,
For health and exercise impart
A bliss which meliorates my heart;

And in these haunts I often find
A balsam for a peevish mind.
As slow I pass the humble cot,
And mark the lab'rer's destin'd lot,
For him no tapers pour their blaze,
Or mirrors with reflected rays
Conspire to emulate the sun,

When he his middle course has run.
The painter here no happy art
Has lent his wonders to impart,
And bid the smiling canvas glow
With mimic life, or flow'ry show;
Nor music's sweet and soft control
Here steals upon the captive soul;
Whilst sparkling wine, with sov'reign pow'r,
Inspires with mirth the fleeting hour:
Such joys as these he never knew,
His wants tho' great, his wishes few.
Soon as the morning's orient light
Dispels the peaceful shades of night,
He patient takes his destin'd way,
In various cares to pass the day,
'Midst Summer's heat, and Winter's snows,

Where toil no intermission knows,

Save when the sabbath's welcome dawn

Invites his steps across the lawn,

To where the village temple stands,
The ancient work of pious hands;
And join in humble decent pray'r,
A refuge sure from ev'ry care:

But first, by musing fancy led,

He views the mansions of the dead.

Tho' here no monumental bust
Adorns the consecrated dust,

No sculptur'd marble here proclaims
A pompous scroll of titled names,
With trophies deck'd, or fun'ral urn,
O'er which Britannia seems to mourn.
One humble stone and artless verse
Attempt their virtues to rehearse,
Or paint the woes of fleeting life,
The parent's pang, the weeping wife;
The village maid in all her bloom,
Call'd, unexpected, to the tomb;
Her smile a parent's care return'd,

In life how lov'd! in death how mourn'd!
He calls to mind her graceful mien,
And pensive quits the mournful scene.
One only joy demands his care,
(A joy but tasted once a year)
When slow along the dusty road

Moves the last welcome harvest load.
While flowing cups of home-brew'd ale
Conspire to aid the lengthen❜d tale;
Where village news, and grave debate,
Of plenteous crops, or harvest's late,
Of wages low, provision's dear,
Tho' Ceres bless'd the laughing year;
Of Nelson's deeds, immortal name!

The dread of France, old England's fame;

And sportive mirth, with rustic song,
The momentary bliss prolong.

The Day declines, he seeks his home,
And dreams of harvests yet to come.
-My bliss with his I oft compare,
And grateful own I have my share.

Say, may I hope (nor hope in vain)
When Spring again shall deck the plain,
On Trent's lov'd banks with you to stray,
And loit'ring cheat a Summer's day?
Retir'd from noise and idle state,
And all the cares that vex the great;
Recount old tales of wond'rous sport,
Despise the vain and splendid court:
Whilst health shall bless the homely meal
And genuine friendship nought conceal
Of new form'd hooks, whose temper pure,
Shall well the greedy pike secure;
Of fraudful flies, whose mimic hues
No trout or chub can e'er refuse?
This hope shall cheer my pensive mind,
'Midst dark December's chilling wind,
To frowning skies shall lend a ray,
And deck with smiles a Winter's day.
Newark, December 18, 1801.

C. S.