Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE FIRE SIDE; A PASTORAL SOLILOQUY, by ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE FIRE SIDE; A PASTORAL SOLILOQUY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Thrice happy, who free from ambition and pride
Last Line: Direct to st. J[ame]s's and takes up the s[eal]s.
Subject(s): Fire; St. James Park, London; Wisdom


THRICE happy, who free from ambition and pride.
In a rural retreat, has a quiet fire side;
I love my fire side, there I long to repair,
And to drink a delightful oblivion of care.
Oh! when shall I 'scape to be truly my own,
From the noise, and the smoke, and the bustle of town?
Then I live, then I triumph, whene'er I retire
From the pomp and parade that the many admire.
Hail, ye woods and ye lawns, shady vales, sunny hills,
And the warble of birds, and the murmur of rills,
Ye flow'rs of all hues that embroider the ground,
Flocks feeding or frisking in gambols around;
Scene of joy to behold! joy, that who would forgo,
For the wealth and the pow'r that a court can bestow?
I have said it at home, I have said it abroad,
That the town is man's world, but that this is of God;
Here my trees cannot flatter, plants nursed by my care
Pay with fruit or with fragrance, and incense the air;
Here contemplative solitude raises the mind
(Least alone, when alone) to ideas refined.
Methinks hid in groves, that no sound can invade,
Save when Philomel strikes up her sweet serenade,
I revolve on the changes and chances of things,
And pity the wretch that depends upon kings.
Now I pass with old authors an indolent hour,
And reclining at ease turn Demosthenes o'er.
Now facetious and vacant, I urge the gay flask
With a set of old friends—who have nothing to ask;
Thus happy, I reck not of France nor of Spain,
Nor the balance of power what hand shall sustain.
The balance of power? Ah! till that is restored,
What solid delight can retirement afford?
Some must be content to be drudges of state,
That the sage may securely enjoy his retreat.
In weather serene, when the ocean is calm,
It matters not much who presides at the helm;
But soon as clouds gather and tempests arise
Then a pilot there needs, a man dauntless and wise.
If such can be found, sure he ought to come forth
And lend to the public his talents and worth.
Whate'er inclination or ease may suggest,
If the state wants his aid, he has no claim to rest;
But who is the man, a bad game to redeem?
He whom Turin admires, who has Prussia's esteem,
Whom the Spaniard has felt; and whose iron with dread
Haughty Lewis saw forging to fall on his head.
Holland loves him, nor less in the North all the powers
Court, honour, revere, and the Empress adores.
Hark! what was that sound? for it seemed more sublime
Than befits the low genius of pastoral rhyme:
Was it Wisdom I heard? or can fumes of the brain
Cheat my ears with a dream? Ha! repeat me that strain:
Yes, Wisdom, I hear thee; thou deign'st to declare
Me, me, the sole Atlas to prop this whole sphere:
Thy voice says, or seems in sweet accents to say,
'Haste to save sinking Britain';—resigned, I obey;
And O! witness ye powers, that ambition and pride
Have no share in this change—for I love my fire side.
Thus the shepherd; then throwing his crook away steals
Direct to St. J[ame]s's and takes up the S[eal]s.





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