A HINT TO RETIRING CITIZENS.
Ye Cits who at White Conduit House,
Hampstead or Holloway carouse,
Let no vain wish disturb ye;
For rural pleasures unexplored,
Take those your Sabbath strolls afford,
And prize your Rus in urbe.
For many who from active trades
Have plung'd into sequester'd shades,
Will dismally assure ye,
That it's a harder task to bear
Th' ennui produced by country air,
And sigh for Urbs in rure.
The cub in prison born and fed,
The bird that in a cage was bred,
The hutch-engender'd rabbit,
Are like the long-imprison'd Cit,
For sudden liberty unfit,
Degenerate by habit.
Sir William Curtis, were he mew'd
In some romantic solitude,
A bower of rose and myrtle,
Would find the loving turtle dove
No succedaneum for his love
Of London Tavern turtle.
Sir Astley Cooper, cloy'd with wealth,
Sick of luxurious ease and health,
And rural meditation,
Sighs for his useful London life,
The restless night—the saw and knife
Of daily amputation.
Habit is second nature—when
It supersedes the first, wise men
Receive it as a warning,
That total change comes then too late,
And they must e'en assimilate
Life's evening to its morning.
Thrice happy he whose mind has sprung
From Mammon's yoke while yet unwrung
Or spoilt for nobler duty:—
Who still can gaze on Nature's face
With all a lover's zeal, and trace
In every change a beauty.
No tedium vitae round him lowers,
The charms of contrast wing his hours,
And every scene embellish:—
From prison, City, care set free,
He tastes his present liberty
With keener zest and relish.
New Monthly Mag.