THOMAS COOMBE

THOMAS COOMBE, who first appears in our literature as a translator of some of his teacher Beveridge's Latin poems, was a native of Philadelphia, and after concluding his course at the College, studied theology, and visiting England to take orders, was on his return appointed an assistant minister of Christ Church. He sided with the liberal party at the outbreak of the Revolution, but disapproving of the separation from England, joined after that event the tory party. He was, in 1777, banished with others, by the legislature, to Staunton, Virginia, but was allowed on the score of sickness to remain. He soon after went to England. The Earl of Carlisle made him his chaplain, and he finally became a Prebendary of Canterbury, and one of the royal chaplains.* In 1775, he published in London a short narrative poem, The Peasant of Auburn, or the Emigrant,† accompanied by a few smaller pieces. The tract is dedicated to Goldsmith, and seems designed as a continuation of the Deserted Village. It presents a lugubrious picture of the fortunes of au emigrant. We quote a few of its closing pages. Edwin, a wanderer on the banks of the Ohio, relates his mournful experiences.

Much had I heard from men unus'd to feign,
Of this New World, and freedom's gentle reign.
Twas fam'd that here, by no proud master spurn'd;
The poor man ate secure the bread he earned;
That verdant vales were fed by brighter streams
Than my own Medway, or the silver Thames:
Fields without bounds, spontaneous fruitage bore,
And peace and virtue bless'd the favor'd shore.
Such were the hopes which once beguil'd my care
Hopes form'd in dreams, and baseless as the air.

Is this, O dire reverse, is this the land,
Where nature sway'd, and peaceful worthies plann'd
Where injured freedom, through the world impell'd,
Her hallow'd seat, her last asylum held!
Ye glittering towns that crown th' Atlantic deep,
Witness the change, and as ye witness weep.
Mourn all ye streams, and all ye fields deplore,
Your slaughter'd sons, your verdure stain'd with

gore.

Time was, blest time, to weeping thousands dear,
When all that poets picture flourished here.
Then War was not, Religion emil'd and spread,
Arts, Manners, Learning, rear'd their polish'd head;
Commerce, her sails to every breeze unfurl'd,
Pour'd on these coasts the treasures of the world.
Past are those halcyon days. The very land
Droops a weak mourner, wither'd and unmann'd.
Brothers 'gainst brothers rise in vengeful strife;
The parent's weapon drinks the children's life,
Sons, leagued with foes, unsheath their impious
sword,

And gore the nurturing breast they had ador'd.
How vain my search to find some lowly bower,
Far from those scenes of death, this rage for power;
Some quiet spot, conceal'd from every eye,
In which to pause from woe, and calmly die.
No such retreat the boundless shades embrace,
But man with beast divides the bloody chase.
What tho' some cottage rise amid the gloom,
In vain its pastures spring, its orchards bloom;

Fisher's Early Poets of Pa. 98.

Far, far away the wretched owners roam,
Exiles like me, the world their only home.
Here as I trace my melancholy way,

The prowling Indian snuffs his wonted prey,
Ha! should I meet him in his dusky round-
Late in these woods I heard his murderous sound-
Still the deep war hoop vibrates on mine ear,
And still I hear his trend, or seem to hear-
Hark! the leaves rustle! what a shriek was there!
Tis he! tis he! his triumphs rend the air.
Hold, coward heart, I'll answer to the yell,
And chase the murderer to his gory cell.
Savage!-but oh! I rave-o'er yonder wild,
E'en at this hour he drives my only child;
She, the dear source and soother of my pain,
My tender daughter, drags the captive chain.

Ah my poor Lucy! in whose face, whose breast,
My long-lost Emna liv'd again confest,
Thus robb'd of thee, and every comfort fled,
Soon shall the turf infold this weary head;
Soon shall my spirit reach that peaceful shore,
Where bleeding friends unite, to part no more.

When shall I cease to rue the fatal morn
When first from Auburn's vale I roam'd forlorn.
He spake and frantic with the end review
Prone on the shore his tottering limbs he threw.
Life's crimson strings were bursting round his heart,
And his torn soul was throbbing to depart;
No pitying friend, no meek-ey'd stranger near,
To tend his throes, or calm them with a tear.
Angels of grace, your golden pinions spread,
Temper the winds, and shield his houseless head.
Let no rude sounds disturb life's awful close,
And guard his relics from inhuman foes.

O haste and wuft him to those radiant plains,
Where fiends torment no more, and love eternal
reigus.

The Peasant of Anburn, or the Emigrant. A Poem. By T. Coombo, D.D. "The short and simple annals of the Poor," Gray. Phil. Enoch Story, Jun. (no date.) Coombe was evidently, from some liues in his poem, a reader of Collins's Kologues as well as of Goldsmith,

He was chosen a selectman of Boston in 1788, and appointed the agent of the town to visit London in the discharge of important business, a duty which he performed with great success. After his return, he was for ten years a member, and for three the speaker of the colonial House of Representatives, where he obtained a great reputation as a debater and efficient presiding officer. He was a member of the council from 1749 to 1766, and lieutenant-governor from 1758 to 1771. Ile was also appointed a judge of probate in 1752, and chief-justice in 1760. During the agitation which followed the passage of the Stamp-Act, in consequence of a report that he had expressed an opinion in favor of that unpopular measure, his honse was twice attacked by a mob. On the first occasion the windows were broken, and a few evenings after, on the 20th of August, the

doors forced open, the furniture and woodwork destroyed, and the house remained in possession of the rioters until morning. A great number of public and private documents were also destroyed. The town passed resolutions condemnatory of the act, and some six or eight persons were imprisoned, who were speedily set at liberty by a company, who, by threatening the jailor, obtained the keys. Hutchinson was indemnitied for his losses by a public grant.

A new subject of controversy arose in 1767 in consequence of his taking a seat in the council in virtue of his office as lieutenant-governor. He abandoned his claim to a seat, and was a few days after appointed one of the commissioners for settling the boundary line with New York, a duty which he discharged greatly to the advantage of the colony.

On the departure of Governor Bernard, in 1769, the whole duties of the office fell upon his lieutenant. Fresh difficulties arose, and he had forwarded a request to England to be discharged from office, when he received the announcement of his appointment as governor. He accepted the office. He continued to increase in unpopularity with the council and people in consequence of the publication of the letters written by him to England, which were discovered and sent back by Franklin. The council and house voted an address for his removal, but his conduct was approved by the king.

He was, however, removed after the destruction of the tea in Boston harbor, and General Gage appointed in his place. Although notified by Gage on his arrival, May 13, that the king intended to reinstate him as soon as Gage's military duties called him elsewhere, he sailed for England on the first of June following. He received a pension from the English government, which was inadequate to the liberal support of his family, and after, according to the account of John Adams, "being laughed at by the courtiers for his manners at the levee, searching his pockets for letters to read to the king, and the king's turning away from him with his nose up," lived in retirement at Brompton, where he died, June 3, 1780.

Hutchinson was the author of a History of the Colony of Massachusetts Bay, from its First Settlement in 1628 to the year 1750, in two volumes, the first of which was published in 1760, and the second in 1767. A third, bringing the narrative down to 1774, was published from a manuscript left behind him after his decease, by his grandson the Rev. John Hutchinson, of Trentham, England, in 1828. He also published various pamphlets, and a volume of documents relative to the history of the colony in 1769.

EARLY CAROLINA LITERATURE.

THERE were comparatively few carly productions of the historic class in the Carolinas. The population was scant; the wonder of the early settlements had abated, and the settlers were not a writing people. Several historic tracts may be mentioned.

T. A., Gent, (Thomas Ashe), clerk on board his Majesty's slap the Richmond, sent out in 1680, published on his return in 1682, Carolina; or a Description of the Present state of that country,

and the natural excellencies therof; namely, the Healthfulness of the Air, Pleasantness of the Place, Advantages and Usefulness of those rich Commodities there plentifully abounding, which much encrease and flourish by the industry of the planters that daily enlarge that colony. It forms twenty-six octavo pages in the reprint in Carroll's Collections.*

John Archdale, late Governor of the province, printed at London in 1707, A new description of that fertile and pleasant Province of Carolina; with a brief account of its discovery and settling, and the government thereof to this time. With several remarkable passages of Divine Providence during my time. It forms thirty-six pages of Carroll's Collection, and is chiefly occupied with the discussions arising under his administration.t

In 1708, John Stevens published in his new collection of voyages and travels, a New Voyage to Carolina, with a journal of a Thousand Miles Travelled through several nations of Indians, by John Lawson, Surveyor General of North Carolina. It was published in a separate form in 1709.1 Lawson was captured while exploring lands in North Carolina, and sacrificed by the Indians in the war of 1712.§

The earliest literature in South Carolina was scientific, medical, and theological, and came from intelligent foreigners who took up their residence in the country. The education of the sons of the wealthy classes was carried on in Europe, and continued to be through the Colonial era. Dr. John Lining, a native of Scotland, in 1753, published at Charleston a history of the Yellow Fecer, the first which had appeared on this continent. He was a correspondent of Franklin, and pursued scientific studies. He died in 1760, in his fifty-second year, having practised medicine in Charleston for nearly thirty years. Dr. Lionel Chalmers, also a Scotchman, was long established in the state, and published an Essay on Fevers at Charleston in 1767. He was the author, too, of a work on the Weather and Diseases of South Carolina, which was issued in London in 1776, the year before his death.

Dr. Alexander Garden was born in Scotland about the year 1728, and was the son of the Rev. Alex. Garden, of the parish of Birse, who, during the Rebellion in the years 1745 and 1746, was distinguished by his exertions in favor of the family of Hanover, and by his interposition in behalf of the followers of the house of Stuart after their defeat at Culloden.

Dr. Garden studied philosophy in the Univer sity of Aberdeen, and received his first medical education under the celebrated Dr. John Gregory, He arrived in South Carolina about the middle of the eighteenth century, and commenced the practice of physic in Prince William's parish, in connexion with Dr. Rose. Here he began his botanic studies, but was obliged to take a voyage northward for his health.

In 1754 he went to New York, where a professorship in the college, recently formed in that

Historical Collections of South Carolina. By B. R. Carroll Harpers, New York. 2 vols. 8vo. 1886. It was separately reprinted by A. E. Miller, Charleston, 1822. Rich's Bib. Americana Holmes' Annals, 1. BUT,

city, was offered him. On his return, he settled in Charleston, acquired a fortune by his practice, and a high reputation for literature. During that period he gave to the public An Account of the Pink Root (Spigelia marilandica), with its Uses as a Vermifuge; A Description of the Helesia, rend before the Royal Society; An Account of the Male and Female Cochineal insects; An Account of the Amphibious Biped (the Mud Inguana or Syren of South Carolina): An Account of two new Species of Tortoises, and another of the Gymnotus Electricus, to different correspondents, and published.

In compliment to him, Linnæus gave the name of Gardenia to one of the most beautiful and fragrant flowering shrubs in the world. He was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of London, and on his arrival there, in 1783, was appointed one of its council, and subsequently one of its vice-presidents.

Dr. Garden's pulmonic disease, which had been suspended during his long residence in South Carolina, now returned upon him. He went for health to the continent, and received great kindness and distinguished compliments froin the literati everywhere, but did not improve in health. He died in London in the year 1792, aged sixtyfour years.*

The Rev. Alexander Garden, who was also from Scotland, came to Charleston about 1720, and died there in 1756, at an advanced age. He was a clergyman of the Episcopal Church, learned and charitable. He published several theological writings, including Letters to Whitefield, and the Doctrine of Justification Vindicated. The Rev. Richard Clarke, from England, was Rector of St. Philip's, in Charleston, a good classical scholar. He published on the prophecies and universal redemption. The Rev. Isaac Chanler, and the Rev. Henry Haywood, two Baptist clergymen of the State, also published several theological writings.

The distinguished naturalist, Mark Catesby, passed several years in South Carolina, engaged in the researches for his Natural History. He was born in England in 1679. He first visited Virginia, where some of his relations resided, in 1712, remaining there seven years collecting plants, and studying the productions of the country. Returning to England, he was led by his scientific friends, Sir Hans Sloane and others, to revisit America, and took up his residence in South Carolina in 1722. He traversed the coast, and made distant excursions into the interior, and visited the Bahamas, collecting the materials for his work, the first volume of which was completed in 1782, and the second in 1743. The plates, then the most costly which had been devoted to the Natural History of America, were completed in 1748. A second edition was pub·lished in 1754,† and a third in 1771. Catesby died in London in 1749.

Ramsay's Blog. Sketches, appended to the second volume of his History of Fouth Carolina

The Natural History of Carolina, Florida, and the Bahama Islands, containing the figures of Birds, Beasts, Fishes, Ser pents Insects, and Plants: particularly the Forest Trees, Shrubs, and other plants not hitherto described, or very incor rectly figured by authors, together with their Descriptions in English and French, to which are added Observations on the

JOHN OSBORN.

JOHN OSBORN was born in 1713 at Sandwick, a village on Cape Cod Bay. Ilis father was a schoolmaster, and subsequently a clergyman, but varied his scholastic by agricultural labors. The son received a similarly practical education, entered Harvard college at the age of nineteen, and after being graduated studied theology. At the expiration of two years he read a sermon before the assembled clergy of the neighborhood with a view of soliciting ordination, but the decision of his auditors being adverse to the doctrines, though laudatory of the literary merits of the discourse, he was refused their recommendation. He then studied medicine and was admitted to practice. He was offered a tutorship in Harvard college, but declined the appointment as a bachelorship was one of the conditions of its tenure, and he was about to become a married man. He soon after married Miss Doane, of Chatham, and removed to Middletown, Conn. In a letter to his sister in March, 1753, he complains of being confined to the house, "weak, lame, and uneasy," and of having "lingered almost two years, a life not worth having." He died May 31 of the same year, leaving six children. Two of these, John and John C., became eminent physicians and cultivated men. John published before the revolution a translation of Condamine's Treatise on Inoculation, with an Appendix; and Joel Barlow submitted his manuscript of the Vision of Columbus to his brother and Richard Alsop for review before its publication.

Two brief poems, The Whaling Song and An Elegiac Epistle on the Death of a Sister, are supposed to comprise all that Osborn has written. One of these has enjoyed a very wide popularity among the class to whom it was addressed.*

A WHALING SONG.

When spring returns with western gales,
And gentle breezes sweep
The ruffling seas, we spread our sails
To plough the wat'ry deep.
For killing northern whales prepared,
Our nimble boats on board,
With craft and rum (our chief regard)
And good provisions stored,

Cape Cod, our dearest native land,
We leave astern, and lose
Its sinking cliffs and lessening sands.
While Zephyr gently blows.

Bold, hardy men, with blooming age,
Our sandy shores produce;
With monstrous fish they dare engage,
And dangerous callings choose.
Now towards the early dawning east

We speed our course away,
With eager minds, and joyful hearts,
To meet the rising day.

Then as we turn our wondering eyes,
We view one constant show;
Above, around, the circling skies,
The rolling seas below.

Air, Boll, and Waters: with Remarks upon Agriculture, Grain, Pulse, Roots, &c., by the late Mark Catesby, F.R.8. Revised by Mr. Edwards, of the Royal College of Physicians, London. 8 vola, follo, Lond. 1754.

• Kettell's Specimens; Thacher's Med. Blog.; Allen; Ellot,

When eastward, clear of Newfoundland,

We stem the frozen pole, We see the icy islands stand,

The northern billows roll

As to the north we make our way,
Surprising scenes we find;
We lengthen out the tedious day,
And leave the night behind.

Now see the northern regions, where
Eternal winter reigns:

One day and night fills up the year,
And endless cold maintains.

We view the monsters of the deep,

Great whales in numerous swarms; And creatures there, that play and leap, Of strange, unusual forms.

When in our station we are placed,
And whales around us play,
We launch our boats into the main,
And swiftly chase our prey.

In haste we ply our nimble oars,
For an assault design'd;

The sea beneath us foams and roars,
And leaves a wake behind.

A mighty whale we rush upon,
And in our irons throw:

She sinks her monstrous body down
Among the waves below.

And when she rises out again,

We soon renew the fight;
Thrust our sharp lances in amain,
And all her rage excite.

Enraged, she makes a mighty bound;
Thick foams the whiten'd sea;
The waves in circles rise around,
And widening roll away.

She thrashes with her tail around,
And blows her redd'ning breath;

She breaks the air, a deaf'ning sound,
While ocean groans beneath.

From numerous wounds, with crimson flood,
She stains the frothy sens,

And gasps, and blows her latest blood,
While quivering life decays.

With joyful hearts we see her die,
And on the surface lay;

While all with eager haste apply,
To save our deathful prey.

THE REV. JOHN ADAMS.

THE publisher of the Poems on several occasions, Original and Translated, by the late Reverend and Learned John Adams, M. A.,* says in his prefatory address to the candid reader of his author, "His own works are the best encomium that can be given him, and as long as learning and politeness shall prevail, his sermons will be his monument, and his poetry his epitaph."

The epitaph has proved more enduring than the monument, though even that has hardly escaped being thrust irrecoverably in "Time's Wallet."

Poems on Several Occasions, Original and Translated, by the late Reverend and Learned John Adams, M. A. Пoo placuit semel, hoc decies repetita placebit. Hor. de Art. Poet Boston. Printed for D. Gookin, in Marlborough street, over agalust the Old South Meeting House. 1745.

The Rev. John Adams's little volume is seldom

John Adams

thought of or seen, save by the literary student. It does not deserve the neglect into which it has fallen.

His life, so far as known, may be narrated in a sentence. He was the only son of the Hon. John Adams, of Nova Scotia, was born in 1704, graduated from Harvard in 1721, was ordained and settled at Newport, Rhode Island, contrary, it is said, to the wishes of Mr. Clap, the pastor, whose congregation formed a new society, leaving Mr. Adams, who appears to have been an assistant, to officiate for two years, and then be dismissed.

He was in great repute as an eloquent preacher, and is described by his uncle, Matthew Adams, as "master of nine languages." He died in 1740, at the early age of thirty-six years, at Cambridge, the fellows of the College appearing as pall-bearers, and the most distinguished persons of the state as mourners at his funeral.

His volume contains a poetical paraphrase, chapter by chapter, of the Book of Revelation, and of some detached passages from other parts of the Bible. Like most well educated writers of verse, he has tried his hand on a few of the Odes of Horace, and with success.

The original poems consist of tributes to deceased friends, penned with ingenuity and eloquence, a poem in three parts on Society, and a few verses on devotional topics.

He was also the author of some verses addressed "To a gentleman on the sight of some of his Poems," published in "A Collection of Poems by Several Hands," Boston, 1744. They were addressed to the Rev. Mather Byles, and are stated in a MS. note in a copy of the collection, now in the possession of Mr. George Ticknor, to be by Adains. He was also the author of a poem on the Love of Money.

His sermon delivered at his ordination in 1728 was published. The collection of his poems contains an advertisement that "a number of select and excellent sermons from his pen are ready for the press, and upon suitable encouragement will be shortly published." But the suitable encouragement seems to have never been received.

FROM A POEM ON SOCIETY.

By inclination, and by judgment led,
A constant friend we choose, for friendship made.
His breast the faithful cabinet to hold
More precious secrets, than are gems or gold.
His temper sweetly suited to our own,
Where wit and honesty conspire in one,
And perfect breeding, like a beauteous dress,
Give all his actions a peculiar grace:
Whose lofty mind with high productions teems,
And fame immortal dazzles with its beams.
Not avarice, nor odious flattery

Lodge in his breast, nor can ascend so high;
Or if they dare to tempt, he hurls them down,
Like Jove the rebels, from his reason's throne.
Nor is his face in anger's scarlet drest,
Nor black revenge eats up his canker'd breast.
Nor envy's furies in his bosom roll,

To lash with steely whips, his hideous soul:
Not sour contempt sits on his scornful brow,

Nor looks on human nature sunk below; But heavenly candor, like unsullied day,

And universal darkness has o'er-spread The splendid honours of your aged head;

away.

And all his soul is peaceful, like the deep,
When all the warring winds are hush'd asleep.
Whose learning's pure, without the base alloy
Of rough ill manners, or worse pedantry.
Refin'd in taste, in judgment cool and clear,
To others gentle, to himself severe.

But, most of all, whose smooth and heavenly breast,

Is with a calm of conscience ever blest:

Whose piercing eyes disperse the flying gloom,
Which hides the native light of things to come;
And can disclose the dark mysterious maze,
Thro' which we wind, in airy pleasure's chace.
While after God his panting bosom heaves,
For whom the glittering goods of life he leaves.
With this blest man, how longs my soul to dwell!
And all the nobler flights of friendship feel,
Forever chain'd to his enchanting tongue,
And with his charming strains in consort strung.
It some retirement, spread with shaded greens,
Our feet would wander thro' surrounding scenes;
Cr sitting near the murmur of the rills,
The grass our bed, our curtains echoing hills;
In mazy thought and contemplation join,
Or speak of human things, or themes divine:
On nature's work by gentle steps to rise,
And by this ladder gain th' impending skies;
Follow the planets thro' their rolling spheres,
Shine with the sun, or glow among the stars:
From world to world, as bees from flow'r to flow'r,
Thro' nature's ample garden take our tour.
Oh! could I with a seraph's vigor move!
Guided thro' nature's trackless path to rove,
I'd gaze, and ask the laws of every Ball,
Which rolls unseen within this mighty All,
Till, reaching to the verge of Nature's height
In God would lose th' unwearied length of flight.

But oh! what joys thro' various bosoms rove,
As silver riv'lets warble through a grove,
When fix'd on Zion's ever-wid'ning plains,
The force of friendship but increas'd remains:
When friend to friend, in robes immortal drest,
With heighten'd graces shall be seen confest;
And with a triumph, all divine, relate
The finish'd labours of this gloomy state:
How heavenly glory dries their former grief,
All op'ning from the puzzled maze of life;
How scenes on scenes, and joys on joys arise,
And fairer visions charm on keener eyes

Here each will find his friend a bubbling source,
Forever fruitful in divine discourse:

No common themes will grace their flowing tongues,
No common subjects will inspire their songs:
United, ne'er to part, but still to spend

A jubilee of rapture without end-
But oh! my Muse, from this amazing height
Descend, and downward trace thy dangerous flight;
Some angel best becomes such lofty things,

With skill to guide, and strength to urge his wings:

To lower strains, confine thy humble lays,
Till, by experience taught, thou learn to praise,

In handling the following pathetic theme he touches the lyre with no trembling hand.

TO MY HONOURED FATHER ON THE LOSS OF HIS SIGHT.

Now Heav'n has quench'd the vivid orbs of light, By which all nature glitter'd to your sight,

And in remoter realms new worlds descry:
Faith, which the mind with fairer glories fills,
Than human sight to human sense reveals.
See Jesus, sitting on a flamy throne,
Whose piercing beams the vailing angels own;
While bowing seraphs, blissful, clap their wings,
Ting'd with the light that from his presence springs,
You, who can touch the strings to melting airs,
And with melodious trills enchant our ears,
May, wing'd by faith, to heavenly vocal plains,
In fancy's organ, drink sublimer strains:
The sounds, which love and sacred joys inspire,
Which pour the music from the raptur'd cloir.
Tho', now the net is wove before your sight,
The web, unfolding soon, will give the light:
The visual rays will thro' the pupil spring,
And nature in a fairer landskip Ling.
But first your frame must moulder in the ground,
Before the light will kindle worlds around:
Your precious ashes, cow'd within the giebe,
Will teem with light, and purer beams imbibe:
Shut now from all the scenes of cheerful day,
You ne'er will see, 'till JESUS pours the ray,
And all the pomp of Heav'n around display.
So when a stream has warbled thro' the wood,
Its limpid bosom smooths and clears its flood;
The rolling mirrour deep imbibes the stains
Of heav'nly saphyr, and impending greens;
Till thro' the ground, in secret channels led,
It hides its glories in the gloomy bed:
Till, op'ning thro' a wide and flow'ry vale,
Far fairer scenes the purer streams reveal
Of his Horatian exercises we may take the first
ode:-

BORACE, BOOK I ODE L
Maecenas, whose ennobled veins
The blood of ancient monarchs stains;
My safeguard, beauty and delight.
Some love the chariot's rapid flight,
To whirl along the dusty ground,
Till with Olympic honors erown'd:
And if their fiery coursers tend
Beyond the goal, they shall ascend
In merit, equal to the gods,
Who people the sublime abodes.
Others, if mingled shouts proclaim
Of jarring citizens, their name,
Exalted to some higher post,
Are in the clouds of rapture lost.
This, if his granary contain

In crowded heaps the ripen'd grain,
Rejoicing his paternal field

To plough, a future crop to yield;
In vain his timorous soul you'd move
Though endless sums his choice should prove,
To leave the safety of the land,

And trust him to the wind's command.
The trembling sailor, when the blue
And boisterous deep his thoughts pursue,
Fearful of tempests, dreads his guín
To venture o'er the threat'ning main:
But loves the shades and peaceful town
Where joy and quiet dwell alone.
But when, impatient to be poor,
Ilis flying vessels leave the shore.
Others the present hour will seize,
And less for business are than ease;
But flowing cups of wine desire,
Which scatter grief, and joy inspire;
Joyful they quaff, and spread their limbs
Along the banks of murm'ring streams,