James Thomson

There studious let me sit, And hold high converse with the mighty dead.

A little round, fat, oily man of God.

Among the changing months, May stands confest The sweetest, and in fairest colors dressed.

But who can paint Like Nature? Can imagination boast, Amid its gay creation, hues like hers?

A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard be-seems, Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain, On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes, Poured from his unpremeditated strain.

Crowned with the sickle, and wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on.

Welcome, ye shades! ye bowery Thickets hail! Ye lofty Pines! ye venerable Oaks! Ye Ashes wild, resounding o'er the steep! Delicious is your shelter to the soul.

An elegant sufficiency, content, Retirement, rural, quiet, friendship, books.

Come then, expressive silence, muse His praise.

Forever, Fortune, wilt thou prove An unrelenting foe to love, And, when we meet a mutual heart, Come in between and bid us part?