The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 382, July 25, 1829. Various

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      Industrious man, thou art a prize to me,

      The best of masters—surely born for thee;

      Thou keeper art of this my rural seat,4

      Kept at my charge to keep my garden neat;

      To train the woodbine and to crop the yew—

      In th' art of gard'ning equall'd p'rhaps by few.

      O! could I cultivate my barren soul,

      As thou this garden canst so well control;

      Pluck up each brier and thorn, by frequent toil,

      And clear the mind as thou canst cleanse the soil5

      But now, my faithful servant, Anthony,

      Just speak, and tell me what you think of me;

      When through the day amidst the gard'ning trade

      You bear the wat'ring pot, or wield the spade,

      And by your labour cause each part to yield,

      And make my garden like a fruitful field;

      What say you, when you see me musing there

      With looks intent as lost in anxious care,

      And sending forth my sentiments in words

      That oft intimidate the peaceful birds?

      Dost thou not then suppose me void of rest,

      Or think some demon agitates my breast?

      Yon villagers, you know, are wont to say

      Thy master's fam'd for writing many a lay,

      'Mongst other matters too he's known to sing

      The glorious acts of our victorious king;6

      Whose martial fame resounds thro' every town;

      Unparallel'd in wisdom and renown.

      You know it well—and by this garden wall

      P'rhaps Mons and Namur7 at this instant fall.

      What shouldst thou think if haply some should say

      This noted chronicler's employ'd to-day

      In writing something new—and thus his time

      Devotes to thee—to paint his thoughts in rhyme?

      My master, thou wouldst say, can ably teach,

      And often tells me more than parsons preach;

      But still, methinks, if he was forc'd to toil

      Like me each day—to cultivate the soil,

      To prune the trees, to keep the fences round;

      Reduce the rising to the level ground,

      Draw water from the fountains near at hand

      To cheer and fertilize the thirsty land,

      He would not trade in trifles such as these,

      And drive the peaceful linnets from the trees.

      Now, Anthony, I plainly see that you

      Suppose yourself the busiest of the two;

      But ah, methinks you'd tell a diff'rent tale

      If two whole days beyond the garden pale

      You were to leave the mattock and the spade

      And all at once take up the poet's trade:

      To give a manuscript a fairer face,

      And all the beauty of poetic grace;

      Or give the most offensive flower that blows

      Carnation's sweets, and colours of the rose;

      And change the homely language of the clown

      To suit the courtly readers of the town—

      Just such a work, in fact, I mean to say,

      As well might please the critics of the day!

      Soon from this work returning tir'd and lean,

      More tann'd than though you'd twenty summers seen,

      The wonted gard'ning tools again you'd take

      Your long-accustom'd shovel and your rake;

      And then exclaiming, you would surely say,

      'Twere better far to labour many a day

      Than e'er attempt to take such useless flights,

      And vainly strive to gain poetic heights,

      Impossible to reach—I might as soon

      Ascend at once and land upon the moon!

      Come, Anthony, attend: let me explain

      (Although an idler) weariness and pain.

      Man's ever rack'd and restless, here below,

      And at his best estate must labour know.

      Then comes fatigue. The Sisters nine may please

      And promise poets happiness and ease;

      But e'en amidst those trees, that cooling shade,

      That calm retreat for them expressly made,

      No rest they find—there rich effusions flow

      In all the measures bardic numbers know:

      Thus on their way in endless toil they move,

      And spend their strength in labours that they love.

      Beneath the trees the bards the muses haunt,

      And with incessant toil are seen to pant;

      But still amidst their pains, they pleasure find

      An ample entertainment for the mind.

      But, after all, 'tis plain enough to me,

      A man unstudious, must unhappy be;

      Who deems a dull, inactive life the best,

      A life of laziness, a life of rest;

      A willing slave to sloth—and well I know,

      He suffers much who nothing has to do.

      His mind beclouded, he obscurely sees,

      And free from busy life imagines ease.

      All sinful pleasures reign without control,

      And passions unsubdued pollute the soul;

      He thus indulges in impure desires,

      Which long have lurk'd within, like latent fires:

      At length they kindle—burst into a flame

      On him they sport—sad spectacle of shame.

      Remorse ensues—with every fierce disease.

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