IX

Sing, beloved Muse! the pleasures of retreat,
And in some untouch’d virgin strain,
Show the delights thy sister Nature yields;
Sing of thy vales, sing of thy woods, sing of thy fields;
        Go, publish o’er the plain
    How mighty a proselyte you gain! 
How noble a reprisal on the great! 
      How is the Muse luxuriant grown! 
        Whene’er she takes this flight,
        She soars clear out of sight. 
These are the paradises of her own: 
      Thy Pegasus, like an unruly horse,
        Though ne’er so gently led,
To the loved pastures where he used to feed,
Runs violent o’er his usual course. 
    Wake from thy wanton dreams,
      Come from thy dear-loved streams,
    The crooked paths of wandering Thames. 
        Fain the fair nymph would stay,
      Oft she looks back in vain,
    Oft ’gainst her fountain does complain,
      And softly steals in many windings down,
      As loth to see the hated court and town;
And murmurs as she glides away.

X

    In this new happy scene
  Are nobler subjects for your learned pen;
    Here we expect from you
More than your predecessor Adam knew;
Whatever moves our wonder, or our sport,
Whatever serves for innocent emblems of the court;
    How that which we a kernel see,
(Whose well-compacted forms escape the light,
  Unpierced by the blunt rays of sight,)
    Shall ere long grow into a tree;
Whence takes it its increase, and whence its birth,
Or from the sun, or from the air, or from the earth,
    Where all the fruitful atoms lie;
  How some go downward to the root,
    Some more ambitious upwards fly,
  And form the leaves, the branches, and the fruit. 
You strove to cultivate a barren court in vain,
Your garden’s better worth your nobler pain,
Here mankind fell, and hence must rise again.

XI

Shall I believe a spirit so divine
      Was cast in the same mould with mine? 
Why then does Nature so unjustly share
Among her elder sons the whole estate,
      And all her jewels and her plate? 
Poor we! cadets of Heaven, not worth her care,
Take up at best with lumber and the leavings of a fare: 
      Some she binds ’prentice to the spade,
      Some to the drudgery of a trade: 
Some she does to Egyptian bondage draw,
Bids us make bricks, yet sends us to look out for straw: 
      Some she condemns for life to try
To dig the leaden mines of deep philosophy: 
Me she has to the Muse’s galleys tied: 
In vain I strive to cross the spacious main,
    In vain I tug and pull the oar;
    And when I almost reach the shore,
Straight the Muse turns the helm, and I launch out again: 
      And yet, to feed my pride,
Whene’er I mourn, stops my complaining breath,
With promise of a mad reversion after death.