ON IMAGINED HAPPINESS IN HUMBLE STATIONS. Susanna Blamire Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Blamire, Susanna, 1747-1794. The Poetical Works of Miss Susanna Blamire “The muse of Cumberland.” Now for the first time collected by Henry Lonsdale, M.D. with a preface, memoir, and notes by Patrick Maxwell, ... Edinburgh John Menzies, 61 Princes Street; R. Tyas, London; D. Robertson, Glasgow; and C. Thurnam, Carlisle. MDCCCXLII. 1842 pp. 86-88.

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ON IMAGINED HAPPINESS IN HUMBLE STATIONS . YE Bards who have polish'd your lays , And sung of the charms of the grove , That Truth's not the language of Praise , You leave Disappointment to prove . 'Tis true that the meadows are fine , Through which the rill tinkles along ; And the trees , which the woodbines entwine , Regale the sweet thrush for his song : At morn , when the sunbeams unveil The beauties that hide with the night , And the primrose and lily so pale The soft eye of Feeling delight : I own , when bespangl'd with dew , The hawthorn in splendour appears ; The mock gem enriches the bough , Till it melts into fanciful tears : But yet these are charms of the hour , To which the hard heart will not yield ; The eye only doats on the flower , But is caught by the glow of the field . Delusion , ye Bards , is your aim , You take not from Nature your quill ; The goddess you worship is Fame , And you talk of the cottage so still . You say , that sweet Innocence there Eternal devotion has paid ; That Cheerfulness carols her prayer , And Peace ever sleeps in the shade . But trust me , ye belles of the town , Arcadia's a far distant view ; And though Ignorance roughens the clown , His heart's not one jot the more true . His wiles I confess we behold Uncover'd by delicate art ; But still his rude manners unfold The vices that cling to the heart . And think not , ye nymphs of degree , That Peace from the gay scene retires ; What is't in a cot that ye see Which kindles such fanciful fires ? Is't the roof bending low to the head , And lattice just hinting at light ? Hard labour can rest on a bed That would not your slumbers invite . Ah ! no ; trust the plain simple Muse , Whom Nature appoints as her scribe ; Nor , tempted by day-dreams , refuse Those gifts which Contentment can bribe . 'Tis ease both of fortune and mind This smiling companion can gain ; 'Tis a friend , as correcting as kind , And a heart wholly free from all stain !