HEALTH to my friend, and long unbroken years,
By storms unruffled and unstain'd by tears :
Wing'd by new joys may each white minute fly ;
Spring on her cheek, and sunshine in her eye :
O'er that dear breast, where love and pity springs,
May peace eternal spread her downy wings :

Sweet beaming hope her path illumine still,
And fair ideas all her fancy fill.
From glittering scenes which strike the dazzled sight
With mimic grandeur and illusive light,
From idle hurry, and tumultuous noise,
From hollow friendships, and from sickly joys,
Will DELIA, at the muse's call retire
To the pure pleasures rural scenes inspire ?
Will she from crowds and busy cities fly,
Where wreaths of curling smoke involve the sky,
To taste the grateful shade of spreading trees,
And drink the spirit of the mountain breeze?

When winter's hand the rough'ning year deforms,
And hollow winds foretel approaching storms,
Then Pleasure, like a bird of passage, flies
To brighter climes, and more indulgent skies ;
Cities and courts allure her sprightly train,

From the bleak mountain and the naked plain ;
And gold and gems with artificial blaze,
Supply the sickly sun's declining rays :
But soon returning on the western gale
She seeks the bosom of the grassy vale ;
There, wrapt in careless ease, attunes the lyre
To the wild warblings of the woodland quire ;
The daisied turf her humble throne supplies,
And early primroses around her rise.
We'll follow where the smiling goddess leads,
Thro' tangled forests or enamel'd meads ;
O'er pathless hills her airy form we'll chase,
In silent glades her fairy footsteps trace :
Small pains there needs her footsteps to pursue,
She cannot fly from friendship, and from you.
Now the glad earth her frozen zone unbinds,
And o'er her bosom breathe the western winds :
Already now the snow-drop dares appear, 

The first pale blossom of th' unripen'd year ;
As FLORA's breath, by some transforming power,
Had chang'd an icicle into a flower :
Its name, and hue, and scentless plant retains,
And winter lingers in its icy veins.
To these succeed the violet's dusky blue,
And each inferior flower of fainter hue ;
Till riper months the perfect year disclose,
And FLORA cries exulting, See my Rose!

The Muse invites, my DELIA haste away,
And let us sweetly waste the careless day.
Here gentle summits lift their airy brow ;
Down the green slope here winds the labouring plow ;
Here bath'd by frequent show'rs cool vales are seen,
Cloath'd with fresh verdure, and eternal green ;
Here smooth canals, across th' extended plain,
Stretch their long arms, to join the distant main :

The sons of toil with many a weary stroke
Scoop the hard bosom of the solid rock ;
Resistless thro' the stiff opposing clay
With steady patience work their gradual way ;
Compel the genius of th' unwilling flood
Thro' the brown horrors of the aged wood ;
Cross the lone waste the silver urn they pour,
And chear the barren heath or sullen moor :
The traveller with pleasing wonder sees
The white sail gleaming thro' the dusky trees ;
And views the alter'd landscape with surprise,
And doubts the magic scenes which round him rise.
Now, like a flock of swans, above his head
Their woven wings the flying vessels spread ;
Now meeting streams in artful mazes glide,
While each unmingled pours a separate tide ;
Now through the hidden veins of earth they flow,
And visit sulphurous mines and caves below ; 

The ductile streams obey the guiding hand,
And social plenty circles round the land.

But nobler praise awaits our green retreats ;
The Muses here have fixt their sacred seats.
Mark where its simple front yon mansion rears,
The nursery of men for future years :
Here callow chiefs and embryo statesmen lie,
And unfledg'd poets short excursions try :
While Mersey's gentle current, which too long
By fame neglected, and unknown to song,
Between his rushy banks, (no poet's theme)
Had crept inglorious, like a vulgar stream,
Reflects th' ascending seats with conscious pride,
And dares to emulate a classic tide.
Soft music breathes along each op'ning shade,
And sooths the dashing of his rough cascade.
With mystic lines his sands are figur'd o'er, 

And circles trac'd upon the letter'd shore,
Beneath his willows rove th' inquiring youth,
And court the fair majestic form of truth.
Here nature opens all her secret springs,
And heav'n-born science plumes her eagle wings :
Too long had bigot rage, with malice swell'd,
Crush'd her strong pinions, and her flight witheld ;
Too long to check her ardent progress strove :
So writhes the serpent round the bird of Jove ;
Hangs on her flight, restrains her tow'ring wing,
Twists its dark folds, and points its venom'd