The Four Seasons. Autumn
Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on; the Doric reed once more, Well pleased, I tune. Whate'er the wintry frost Nitrous prepared; the various blossom'd Spring Put in white promise forth; and Summer-suns Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view, Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme. Onslow! the Muse, ambitious of thy name, To grace, inspire, and dignify her song, Would from the public voice thy gentle ear A while engage. Thy noble cares she knows, The patriot virtues that distend thy thought, Spread on thy front, and in thy bosom glow; While listening senates hang upon thy tongue, Devolving through the maze of eloquence A roll of periods, sweeter than her song. But she too pants for public virtue, she, Though weak of power, yet strong in ardent will, Whene'er her country rushes on her heart, Assumes a bolder note, and fondly tries To mix the patriot's with the poet's flame. When the bright Virgin gives the beauteous days, And Libra weighs in equal scales the year; From Heaven's high cope the fierce effulgence shook Of parting Summer, a serener blue, With golden light enliven'd, wide invests The happy world. Attemper'd suns arise, Sweet-beam'd, and shedding oft through lucid clouds A pleasing calm; while broad, and brown, below Extensive harvests hang the heavy head. Rich, silent, deep, they stand; for not a gale Rolls its light billows o'er the bending plain: A calm of plenty! till the ruffled air Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow. Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky; The clouds fly different; and the sudden sun By fits effulgent gilds the illumined field, And black by fits the shadows sweep along. A gaily chequer'd heart-expanding view, Far as the circling eye can shoot around, Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn. These are thy blessings, Industry! rough power! Whom labour still attends, and sweat, and pain; Yet the kind source of every gentle art, And all the soft civility of life: Raiser of human kind! by Nature cast, Naked, and helpless, out amid the woods And wilds, to rude inclement elements; With various seeds of art deep in the mind Implanted, and profusely pour'd around Materials infinite, but idle all. Still unexerted, in the unconscious breast, Slept the lethargic powers; Corruption still, Voracious, swallow'd what the liberal hand Of bounty scatter'd o'er the savage year: And still the sad barbarian, roving, mix'd With beasts of prey; or for his acorn-meal Fought the fierce tusky boar; a shivering wretch! Aghast, and comfortless, when the bleak north, With Winter charged, let the mix'd tempest fly, Hail, rain, and snow, and bitter-breathing frost: Then to the shelter of the hut he fled; And the wild season, sordid, pined away. For home he had not; home is the resort Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where, Supporting and supported, polish'd friends, And dear relations mingle into bliss. But this the rugged savage never felt, E'en desolate in crowds; and thus his days Roll'd heavy, dark, and unenjoy'd along: A waste of time! till Industry approach'd, And roused him from his miserable sloth: His faculties unfolded; pointed out, Where lavish Nature the directing hand Of art demanded; show'd him how to raise His feeble force by the mechanic powers, To dig the mineral from the vaulted earth, On what to turn the piercing rage of fire, On what the torrent, and the gather'd blast; Gave the tall ancient forest to his axe; Taught him to chip the wood, and hew the stone, Till by degrees the finish'd fabric rose; Tore from his limbs the blood-polluted fur, And wrapt them in the woolly vestment warm, Or bright in glossy silk, and flowing lawn; With wholesome viands fill'd his table, pour'd The generous glass around, inspired to wake The life-refining soul of decent wit: Nor stopp'd at barren bare necessity; But still advancing bolder, led him on To pomp, to pleasure, elegance, and grace; And, breathing high ambition through his soul, Set science, wisdom, glory, in his view, And bade him be the Lord of all below. Then gathering men their natural powers combined, And form'd a Public; to the general good Submitting, aiming, and conducting all. For this the Patriot-Council met, the full, The free, and fairly represented Whole; For this they plann'd the holy guardian laws, Distinguish'd orders, animated arts, And with joint force Oppression chaining, set Imperial Justice at the helm; yet still To them accountable: nor slavish dream'd That toiling millions must resign their weal, And all the honey of their search, to such As for themselves alone themselves have raised. Hence every form of cultivated life In order set, protected, and inspired, Into perfection wrought. Uniting all, Society grew numerous, high, polite, And happy. Nurse of art! the city rear'd In beauteous pride her tower-encircled head; And, stretching street on street, by thousands drew, From twining woody haunts, or the tough yew To bows strong-straining, her aspiring sons. Then Commerce brought into the public walk The busy merchant; the big warehouse built; Raised the strong crane; choked up the loaded street With foreign plenty; and thy stream, O Thames, Large, gentle, deep, majestic, king of floods! Chose for his grand resort. On either hand, Like a long wintry forest, groves of masts Shot up their spires; the bellying sheet between Possess'd the breezy void; the sooty hulk Steer'd sluggish on; the splendid barge along Row'd, regular, to harmony; around, The boat, light-skimming, stretch'd its oary wings; While deep the various voice of fervent toil From bank to bank increased; whence ribb'd with oak, To bear the British thunder, black, and bold, The roaring vessel rush'd into the main. Then too the pillar'd dome, magnific, heaved Its ample roof; and Luxury within Pour'd out her glittering stores: the canvass smooth, With glowing life protuberant, to the view Embodied rose; the statue seem'd to breathe, And soften into flesh; beneath the touch Of forming art, imagination-flush'd. All is the gift of Industry; whate'er Exalts, embellishes, and renders life Delightful. Pensive Winter cheer'd by him Sits at the social fire, and happy hears The excluded tempest idly rave along; His harden'd fingers deck the gaudy Spring; Without him Summer were an arid waste; Nor to the Autumnal months could thus transmit Those full, mature, immeasurable stores, That, waving round, recall my wandering song. Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky, And, unperceived, unfolds the spreading day; Before the ripen'd field the reapers stand, In fair array, each by the lass he loves, To bear the rougher part, and mitigate By nameless gentle offices her toil. At once they stoop, and swell the lusty sheaves; While through their cheerful band the rural talk, The rural scandal, and the rural jest, Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time, And steal unfelt the sultry hours away. Behind the master walks, builds up the shocks; And, conscious, glancing oft on every side His sated eye, feels his heart heave with joy. The gleaners spread around, and here and there, Spike after spike, their scanty harvest pick. Be not too narrow, husbandmen! but fling From the full sheaf, with charitable stealth, The liberal handful. Think, oh grateful think! How good the God of Harvest is to you; Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields; While these unhappy partners of your kind Wide-hover round you, like the fowls of heaven, And ask their humble dole. The various turns Of fortune ponder; that your sons may want What now, with hard reluctance, faint, ye give. The lovely young Lavinia once had friends; And Fortune smiled, deceitful, on her birth. For, in her helpless years deprived of all, Of every stay, save Innocence and Heaven, She with her widow'd mother, feeble, old, And poor, lived in a cottage, far retired Among the windings of a woody vale; By solitude and deep surrounding shades, But more by bashful modesty, conceal'd. Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet From giddy passion and low-minded pride: Almost on Nature's common bounty fed; Like the gay birds that sung them to repose, Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare. Her form was fresher than the morning rose, When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd and pure As is the lily, or the mountain snow. The modest Virtues mingled in her eyes, Still on the ground dejected, darting all Their humid beams into the blooming flowers: Or when the mournful tale her mother told, Of what her faithless fortune promised once, Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace Sat fair-proportion'd on her polish'd limbs, Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire, Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most. Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self, Recluse amid the close-embowering woods. As in the hollow breast of Appenine, Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, A myrtle rises, far from human eye, And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild; So flourish'd blooming, and unseen by all, The sweet Lavinia; till, at length, compell'd By strong Necessity's supreme command, With smiling patience in her looks, she went To glean Palemon's fields. The pride of swains Palemon was, the generous, and the rich; Who led the rural life in all its joy And elegance, such as Arcadian song Transmits from ancient uncorrupted times; When tyrant custom had not shackled man, But free to follow Nature was the mode. He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes Amusing, chanced beside his reaper-train To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye; Unconcious of her power, and turning quick With unaffected blushes from his gaze: He saw her charming, but he saw not half The charms her down-cast modesty conceal'd. That very moment love and chaste desire Sprung in his bosom, to himself unknown; For still the world prevail'd and its dread laugh, Which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn, Should his heart own a gleaner in the field; And thus in secret to his soul he sigh'd:— “What pity! that so delicate a form, By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense And more than vulgar goodness seem to dwell, Should be devoted to the rude embrace Of some indecent clown! She looks, methinks, Of old Acasto's line; and to my mind Recalls that patron of my happy life, From whom my liberal fortune took its rise; Now to the dust gone down; his houses, lands, And once fair-spreading family, dissolved. 'Tis said that in some lone obscure retreat, Urged by remembrance sad, and decent pride, Far from those scenes which knew their better days, His aged widow and his daughter live, Whom yet my fruitless search could never find. Romantic wish! would this the daughter were!” When, strict inquiring, from herself he found She was the same, the daughter of his friend, Of bountiful Acasto; who can speak The mingled passions that surprised his heart, And through his nerves in shivering transport ran? Then blazed his smother'd flame, avow'd, and bold; And as he view'd her, ardent, o'er and o'er, Love, gratitude, and pity wept at once. Confused, and frighten'd at his sudden tears, Her rising beauties flush'd a higher bloom, As thus Palemon, passionate and just, Pour'd out the pious rapture of his soul: “And art thou then Acasto's dear remains? She, whom my restless gratitude has sought, So long in vain? O heavens! the very same, The soften'd image of my noble friend; Alive his every look, his every feature, More elegantly touch'd. Sweeter than Spring! Thou sole surviving blossom from the root That nourish'd up my fortune! say, ah where, In what sequester'd desert hast thou drawn The kindest aspect of delighted Heaven? Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair; Though Poverty's cold wind and crushing rain Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years? O let me now into a richer soil Transplant thee safe! where vernal suns and showers Diffuse their warmest, largest influence; And of my garden be the pride and joy! Ill it befits thee, oh, it ill befits Acasto's daughter, his, whose open stores, Though vast, were little to his ampler heart, The father of a country, thus to pick The very refuse of those harvest fields, Which from his bounteous friendship I enjoy. Then throw that shameful pittance from thy hand, But ill applied to such a rugged task; The fields, the master, all, my fair, are thine; If to the various blessings which thy house Has on me lavish'd, thou wilt add that bliss, That dearest bliss, the power of blessing thee!” Here ceased the youth: yet still his speaking eye Express'd the sacred triumph of his soul, With conscious virtue, gratitude, and love, Above the vulgar joy divinely raised. Nor waited he reply. Won by the charm Of goodness irresistible, and all In sweet disorder lost, she blush'd consent. The news immediate to her mother brought, While, pierced with anxious thought, she pined away The lonely moments for Lavinia's fate; Amazed, and scarce believing what she heard, Joy seized her wither'd veins, and one bright gleam Of setting life shone on her evening-hours: Not less enraptured than the happy pair; Who flourish'd long in tender bliss, and rear'd A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves, And good, the grace of all the country round. Defeating oft the labours of the year, The sultry south collects a potent blast. At first, the groves are scarcely seen to stir Their trembling tops; and a still murmur runs Along the soft-inclining fields of corn. But as the aërial tempest fuller swells, And in one mighty stream, invisible, Immense, the whole excited atmosphere Impetuous rushes o'er the sounding world; Strain'd to the root, the stooping forest pours A rustling shower of yet untimely leaves. High beat, the circling mountains eddy in, From the bare wild, the dissipated storm, And send it in a torrent down the vale. Exposed, and naked, to its utmost rage, Through all the sea of harvest rolling round, The billowy plain floats wide; nor can evade, Though pliant to the blast, its seizing force; Or whirl'd in air, or into vacant chaff Shook waste. And sometimes too a burst of rain, Swept from the black horizon, broad, descends In one continuous flood. Still over head The mingling tempest weaves its gloom, and still The deluge deepens; till the fields around Lie sunk, and flatted, in the sordid wave. Sudden, the ditches swell; the meadows swim. Red, from the hills, innumerable streams Tumultuous roar; and high above its banks The river lift; before whose rushing tide Herds, flocks, and harvests, cottages, and swains, Roll mingled down; all that the winds had spared In one wild moment ruin'd; the big hopes, And well earn'd treasures of the painful year. Fled to some eminence, the husbandman Helpless beholds the miserable wreck Driving along; his drowning ox at once Descending, with his labours scatter'd round, He sees; and instant o'er his shivering thought Comes Winter unprovided, and a train Of claimant children dear. Ye masters, then, Be mindful of the rough laborious hand That sinks you soft in elegance and ease; Be mindful of those limbs in russet clad, Whose toil to yours is warmth and graceful pride; And, oh! be mindful of that sparing board, Which covers yours with luxury profuse, Makes your glass sparkle, and your sense rejoice! Nor cruelly demand what the deep rains And all-involving winds have swept away. Here the rude clamour of the sportsman's joy, The gun fast-thundering, and the winded horn, Would tempt the muse to sing the rural game: How in his mid-career the spaniel struck, Stiff, by the tainted gale, with open nose, Outstretch'd and finely sensible, draws full, Fearful and cautious, on the latent prey; As in the sun the circling covey bask Their varied plumes, and watchful every way, Through the rough stubble turn the secret eye. Caught in the meshy snare, in vain they beat Their idle wings, entangled more and more: Nor on the surges of the boundless air, Though borne triumphant, are they safe; the gun, Glanced just, and sudden, from the fowler's eye, O'ertakes their sounding pinions: and again, Immediate, brings them from the towering wing, Dead to the ground; or drives them wide dispersed, Wounded, and wheeling various, down the wind. These are not subjects for the peaceful Muse, Nor will she stain with such her spotless song; Then most delighted, when she social sees The whole mix'd animal-creation round Alive and happy. 'Tis not joy to her, The falsely cheerful barbarous game of death, This rage of pleasure, which the restless youth Awakes, impatient, with the gleaming morn: When beasts of prey retire, that all night long, Urged by necessity, had ranged the dark, As if their conscious ravage shunn'd the light, Ashamed. Not so the steady tyrant Man, Who with the thoughtless insolence of power Inflamed, beyond the most infuriate wrath Of the worst monster that e'er roam'd the waste, For sport alone pursues the cruel chase, Amid the beamings of the gentle days. Upbraid, ye ravening tribes, our wanton rage, For hunger kindles you, and lawless want; But lavish fed, in Nature's bounty roll'd, To joy at anguish, and delight in blood, Is what your horrid bosoms never knew. Poor is the triumph o'er the timid hare! Scared from the corn, and now to some lone seat Retired: the rushy fen; the ragged furze, Stretch'd o'er the stony heath; the stubble chapt; The thistly lawn; the thick entangled broom; Of the same friendly hue, the wither'd fern; The fallow ground laid open to the sun, Concoctive; and the nodding sandy bank, Hung o'er the mazes of the mountain brook. Vain is her best precaution; though she sits Conceal'd, with folded ears; unsleeping eyes, By Nature raised to take the horizon in; And head couch'd close betwixt her hairy feet, In act to spring away. The scented dew Betrays her early labyrinth; and deep, In scatter'd sullen openings, far behind, With every breeze she hears the coming storm. But nearer, and more frequent, as it loads The sighing gale, she springs amazed, and all The savage soul of game is up at once: The pack full-opening, various; the shrill horn Resounded from the hills; the neighing steed, Wild for the chase; and the loud hunter's shout; O'er a weak, harmless, flying creature, all Mix'd in mad tumult, and discordant joy. The stag too, singled from the herd, where long He ranged the branching monarch of the shades, Before the tempest drives. At first, in speed He, sprightly, puts his faith; and, roused by fear, Gives all his swift aërial soul to flight; Against the breeze he darts, that way the more To leave the lessening murderous cry behind: Deception short! though fleeter than the winds Blown o'er the keen-air'd mountain by the north, He bursts the thickets, glances through the glades, And plunges deep into the wildest wood; If slow, yet sure, adhesive to the track Hot-steaming, up behind him come again The inhuman rout, and from the shady depth Expel him, circling through his every shift. He sweeps the forest oft; and sobbing sees The glades, mild opening to the golden day; Where, in kind contest, with his butting friends He wont to struggle, or his loves enjoy. Oft in the full-descending flood he tries To lose the scent, and lave his burning sides: Oft seeks the herd; the watchful herd, alarm'd, With selfish care avoid a brother's woe. What shall he do? His once so vivid nerves, So full of buoyant spirit, now no more Inspire the course; but fainting breathless toil, Sick, seizes on his heart: he stands at bay; And puts his last weak refuge in despair. The big round tears run down his dappled face; He groans in anguish: while the growling pack, Blood-happy, hang at his fair jutting chest, And mark his beauteous chequer'd sides with gore. Of this enough. But if the sylvan youth, Whose fervent blood boils into violence, Must have the chase; behold, despising flight, The roused up lion, resolute, and slow, Advancing full on the protended spear, And coward band, that circling wheel aloof. Slunk from the cavern, and the troubled wood, See the grim wolf; on him his shaggy foe Vindictive fix, and let the ruffian die: Or, growling horrid, as the brindled boar Grins fell destruction, to the monster's heart Let the dart lighten from the nervous arm. These Britain knows not; give, ye Britons, then Your sportive fury, pitiless, to pour Loose on the nightly robber of the fold; Him, from his craggy winding haunts unearth'd, Let all the thunder of the chase pursue. Throw the broad ditch behind you; o'er the hedge High bound, resistless; nor the deep morass Refuse, but through the shaking wilderness Pick your nice way; into the perilous flood Bear fearless, of the raging instinct full; And as you ride the torrent, to the banks Your triumph sound sonorous, running round, From rock to rock, in circling echoes tost; Then scale the mountains to their woody tops; Rush down the dangerous steep; and o'er the lawn, In fancy swallowing up the space between, Pour all your speed into the rapid game. For happy he! who tops the wheeling chase; Has every maze evolved, and every guile Disclosed; who knows the merits of the pack; Who saw the villain seized, and dying hard, Without complaint, though by a hundred mouths Relentless torn: O glorious he, beyond His daring peers! when the retreating horn Calls them to ghostly halls of gray renown, With woodland honours graced; the fox's fur, Depending decent from the roof: and spread Round the drear walls, with antic figures fierce, The stag's large front: he then is loudest heard, When the night staggers with severer toils, With feats Thessalian Centaurs never knew, And their repeated wonders shake the dome. But first the fuel'd chimney blazes wide; The tankards foam; and the strong table groans Beneath the smoking sirloin, stretch'd immense From side to side; in which, with desperate knife, They deep incision make, and talk the while Of England's glory, ne'er to be defaced While hence they borrow vigour: or amain Into the pasty plunged, at intervals, If stomach keen can intervals allow, Relating all the glories of the chase. Then sated Hunger bids his Brother Thirst Produce the mighty bowl; the mighty bowl, Swell'd high with fiery juice, steams liberal round A potent gale, delicious, as the breath Of Maia to the love-sick shepherdess, On violets diffused, while soft she hears Her panting shepherd stealing to her arms. Nor wanting is the brown October, drawn, Mature and perfect, from his dark retreat Of thirty years; and now his honest front Flames in the light refulgent, not afraid E'en with the vineyard's best produce to vie. To cheat the thirsty moments, Whist a while Walks his dull round beneath a cloud of smoke, Wreath'd, fragrant, from the pipe; or the quick dice, In thunder leaping from the box, awake The sounding gammon: while romp-loving miss Is haul'd about, in gallantry robust. At last these puling idlenesses laid Aside, frequent and full, the dry divan Close in firm circle; and set, ardent, in For serious drinking. Nor evasion sly, Nor sober shift, is to the puking wretch Indulged apart; but earnest, brimming bowls Lave every soul, the table floating round, And pavement, faithless to the fuddled foot. Thus as they swim in mutual swill, the talk, Vociferous at once from twenty tongues, Reels fast from theme to theme; from horses, hounds, To church or mistress, politics or ghost, In endless mazes, intricate, perplex'd. Meantime, with sudden interruption, loud, The impatient catch bursts from the joyous heart; That moment touch'd is every kindred soul; And, opening in a full-mouth'd cry of joy, The laugh, the slap, the jocund curse go round; While, from their slumbers shook, the kennel'd hounds Mix in the music of the day again. As when the tempest, that has vex'd the deep The dark night long, with fainter murmurs falls; So gradual sinks their mirth. Their feeble tongues, Unable to take up the cumbrous word, Lie quite dissolved. Before their maudlin eyes, Seen dim and blue, the double tapers dance, Like the sun wading through the misty sky. Then, sliding soft, they drop. Confused above, Glasses and bottles, pipes and gazetteers, As if the table e'en itself was drunk, Lie a wet broken scene; and wide, below, Is heap'd the social slaughter: where astride The lubber Power in filthy triumph sits, Slumbrous, inclining still from side to side, And steeps them drench'd in potent sleep till morn. Perhaps some doctor, of tremendous paunch, Awful and deep, a black abyss of drink, Outlives them all; and from his buried flock Retiring, full of rumination sad, Laments the weakness of these latter times. But if the rougher sex by this fierce sport Is hurried wild, let not such horrid joy E'er stain the bosom of the British Fair. Far be the spirit of the chase from them! Uncomely courage, unbeseeming skill; To spring the fence, to rein the prancing steed; The cap, the whip, the masculine attire; In which they roughen to the sense, and all The winning softness of their sex is lost. In them 'tis graceful to dissolve at woe; With every motion, every word, to wave Quick o'er the kindling cheek the ready blush; And from the smallest violence to shrink Unequal, then the loveliest in their fears; And by this silent adulation, soft, To their protection more engaging Man. O may their eyes no miserable sight, Save weeping lovers, see! a nobler game, Through love's enchanting wiles pursued, yet fled, In chase ambiguous. May their tender limbs Float in the loose simplicity of dress! And, fashion'd all to harmony, alone Know they to seize the captivated soul, In rapture warbled from love-breathing lips; To teach the lute to languish; with smooth step, Disclosing motion in its every charm, To swim along, and swell the mazy dance; To train the foliage o'er the snowy lawn; To guide the pencil, turn the tuneful page; To lend new flavour to the fruitful year, And heighten Nature's dainties: in their race To rear their graces into second life; To give society its highest taste; Well order'd home man's best delight to make; And by submissive wisdom, modest skill, With every gentle care-eluding art, To raise the virtues, animate the bliss, And sweeten all the toils of human life: This be the female dignity, and praise. Ye swains, now hasten to the hazel bank; Where, down yon dale, the wildly winding brook Falls hoarse from steep to steep. In close array, Fit for the thickets and the tangling shrub, Ye virgins, come. For you their latest song The woodlands raise; the clustering nuts for you The lover finds amid the secret shade; And, where they burnish on the topmost bough, With active vigour crushes down the tree; Or shakes them ripe from the resigning husk, A glossy shower, and of an ardent brown, As are the ringlets of Melinda's hair: Melinda! form'd with every grace complete; Yet these neglecting, above beauty wise, And far transcending such a vulgar praise. Hence from the busy joy-resounding fields, In cheerful error, let us tread the maze Of Autumn, unconfined; and taste, revived, The breath of orchard big with bending fruit, Obedient to the breeze and beating ray, From the deep-loaded bough a mellow shower Incessant melts away. The juicy pear Lies, in a soft profusion, scatter'd round. A various sweetness swells the gentle race; By Nature's all-refining hand prepared; Of temper'd sun, and water, earth, and air, In ever changing composition mix'd. Such, falling frequent through the chiller night, The fragrant stores, the wide projected heaps Of apples, which the lusty-handed Year, Innumerous, o'er the blushing orchard shakes. A various spirit, fresh, delicious, keen, Dwells in their gelid pores; and, active, points The piercing cyder for the thirsty tongue: Thy native theme, and boon inspirer too, Philips, Pomona's bard, the second thou Who nobly durst, in rhyme-unfetter'd verse, With British freedom sing the British song: How, from Silurian vats, high sparkling wines Foam in transparent floods; some strong, to cheer The wintry revels of the labouring hind; And tasteful some, to cool the summer hours. In this glad season, while his sweetest beams The sun sheds equal o'er the meeken'd day; Oh lose me in the green delightful walks Of, Dodington, thy seat, serene and plain; Where simple Nature reigns; and every view, Diffusive, spreads the pure Dorsetian downs, In boundless prospect; yonder shagg'd with wood, Here rich with harvest, and there white with flocks! Meantime the grandeur of thy lofty dome, Far splendid, seizes on the ravish'd eye. New beauties rise with each revolving day; New columns swell; and still the fresh Spring finds New plants to quicken, and new groves to green. Full of thy genius all! the Muses' seat: Where in the secret bower, and winding walk, For virtuous Young and thee they twine the bay. Here wandering oft, fired with the restless thirst Of thy applause, I solitary court The inspiring breeze: and meditate the book Of Nature ever open; aiming thence, Warm from the heart, to learn the moral song. Here, as I steal along the sunny wall, Where Autumn basks, with fruit empurpled deep, My pleasing theme continual prompts my thought: Presents the downy peach; the shining plum: The ruddy, fragrant nectarine; and dark, Beneath his ample leaf, the luscious fig. The vine too here her curling tendrils shoots; Hangs out her clusters, glowing to the south; And scarcely wishes for a warmer sky. Turn we a moment Fancy's rapid flight To vigorous soils, and climes of fair extent; Where, by the potent sun elated high, The vineyard swells refulgent on the day; Spreads o'er the vale; or up the mountain climbs, Profuse; and drinks amid the sunny rocks, From cliff to cliff increased, the heighten'd blaze. Low bend the weighty boughs. The clusters clear, Half through the foliage seen, or ardent flame, Or shine transparent; while perfection breathes White o'er the turgent film the living dew. As thus they brighten with exalted juice, Touch'd into flavour by the mingling ray; The rural youth and virgins o'er the field, Each fond for each to cull the autumnal prime, Exulting rove, and speak the vintage nigh. Then comes the crushing swain; the country floats, And foams unbounded with the mashy flood; That by degrees fermented, and refined, Round the raised nations pours the cup of joy: The claret smooth, red as the lip we press In sparkling fancy, while we drain the bowl; The mellow-tasted burgundy; and quick, As is the wit it gives, the gay champagne. Now, by the cool declining year condensed, Descend the copious exhalations, check'd As up the middle sky unseen they stole, And roll the doubling fogs around the hill. No more the mountain, horrid, vast, sublime, Who pours a sweep of rivers from his sides, And high between contending kingdoms rears The rocky long division, fills the view With great variety; but in a night Of gathering vapour, from the baffled sense Sinks dark and dreary. Thence expanding far, The huge dusk, gradual, swallows up the plain: Vanish the woods: the dim-seen river seems Sullen, and slow, to roll the misty wave. E'en in the height of noon oppress'd, the sun Sheds weak, and blunt, his wide-refracted ray; Whence glaring oft, with many a broaden'd orb, He frights the nations. Indistinct on earth, Seen through the turbid air, beyond the life Objects appear; and, wilder'd, o'er the waste The shepherd stalks gigantic. Till at last Wreath'd dun around, in deeper circles still Successive closing, sits the general fog Unbounded o'er the world; and, mingling thick, A formless grey confusion covers all. As when of old (so sung the Hebrew Bard) Light, uncollected, through the chaos urged Its infant way; nor Order yet had drawn His lovely train from out the dubious gloom. These roving mists, that constant now begin To smoke along the hilly country, these, With weightier rains, and melted Alpine snows, The mountain-cisterns fill, those ample stores Of water, scoop'd among the hollow rocks; Whence gush the streams, the ceaseless fountains play, And their unfailing wealth the rivers draw. Some sages say, that, where the numerous wave For ever lashes the resounding shore, Drill'd through the sandy stratum, every way, The waters with the sandy stratum rise; Amid whose angles infinitely strain'd, They joyful leave their jaggy salts behind, And clear and sweeten as they soak along. Nor stops the restless fluid, mounting still, Though oft amidst the irriguous vale it springs; But to the mountain courted by the sand, That leads it darkling on in faithful maze, Far from the parent-main, it boils again Fresh into day; and all the glittering hill Is bright with spouting rills. But hence this vain Amusive dream! why should the waters love To take so far a journey to the hills, When the sweet valleys offer to their toil Inviting quiet, and a nearer bed? Or if by blind ambition led astray, They must aspire; why should they sudden stop Among the broken mountain's rushy dells, And, ere they gain its highest peak, desert The attractive sand that charm'd their course so long? Besides, the hard agglomerating salts, The spoil of ages, would impervious choke Their secret channels; or, by slow degrees, High as the hills protrude the swelling vales: Old Ocean too, suck'd through the porous globe, Had long ere now forsook his horrid bed, And brought Deucalion's watery times again. Say then, where lurk the vast eternal springs, That, like creating Nature, lie conceal'd From mortal eye, yet with their lavish stores Refresh the globe, and all its joyous tribes! O thou pervading Genius, given to man, To trace the secrets of the dark abyss, O lay the mountains bare! and wide display Their hidden structure to the astonish'd view! Strip from the branching Alps their piny load; The huge incumbrance of horrific woods From Asian Taurus, from Imaus stretch'd Athwart the roving Tartar's sullen bounds; Give opening Hemus to my searching eye, And high Olympus pouring many a stream! O from the sounding summits of the north, The Dofrine hills, through Scandinavia roll'd To farthest Lapland and the frozen main; From lofty Caucasus, far seen by those Who in the Caspian and black Euxine toil; From cold Riphean rocks, which the wild Russ Believes the stony girdle of the world: And all the dreadful mountains, wrapp'd in storm, Whence wide Siberia draws her lonely floods; O sweep the eternal snows! hung o'er the deep, That ever works beneath his sounding base, Bid Atlas, propping heaven, as poets feign, His subterranean wonders spread! unveil The miny caverns, blazing on the day, Of Abyssinia's cloud-compelling cliffs, And of the bending Mountains of the Moon! O'ertopping all these giant sons of earth, Let the dire Andes, from the radiant line Stretch'd to the stormy seas that thunder round The southern pole, their hideous deeps unfold! Amazing scene! Behold! the glooms disclose; I see the rivers in their infant beds! Deep, deep I hear them, labouring to get free; I see the leaning strata, artful ranged; The gaping fissures to receive the rains, The melting snows, and ever dripping fogs. Strow'd bibulous above I see the sands, The pebbly gravel next, the layers then Of mingled moulds, of more retentive earths The gutter'd rocks and mazy-running clefts; That, while the stealing moisture they transmit, Retard its motion, and forbid its waste. Beneath the incessant weeping of these drains, I see the rocky siphons stretch'd immense, The mighty reservoirs, of harden'd chalk, Or stiff compacted clay, capacious form'd: O'erflowing thence, the congregated stores, The crystal treasures of the liquid world, Through the stirr'd sands a bubbling passage burst; And welling out, around the middle steep, Or from the bottoms of the bosom'd hills, In pure effusion flow. United, thus, The exhaling sun, the vapour-burden'd air, The gelid mountains, that to rain condensed These vapours in continual current draw, And send them, o'er the fair-divided earth, In bounteous rivers to the deep again, A social commerce hold, and firm support The full-adjusted harmony of things. When Autumn scatters his departing gleams, Warn'd of approaching Winter, gather'd, play The swallow-people; and toss'd wide around, O'er the calm sky, in convolution swift, The feather'd eddy floats: rejoicing once, Ere to their wintry slumbers they retire; In clusters clung, beneath the mouldering bank, And where, unpierced by frost, the cavern sweats. Or rather into warmer climes convey'd, With other kindred birds of season, there They twitter cheerful, till the vernal months Invite them welcome back: for, thronging, now Innumerous wings are in commotion all. Where the Rhine loses his majestic force In Belgian plains, won from the raging deep, By diligence amazing, and the strong Unconquerable hand of Liberty, The stork-assembly meets; for many a day, Consulting deep, and various, ere they take Their arduous voyage through the liquid sky: And now their route design'd, their leaders chose, Their tribes adjusted, clean'd their vigorous wings; And many a circle, many a short essay, Wheel'd round and round, in congregation full The figured flight ascends; and, riding high The aërial billows, mixes with the clouds. Or where the Northern ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked melancholy isles Of farthest Thule, and the Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides; Who can recount what transmigrations there Are annual made? what nations come and go? And how the living clouds on clouds arise? Infinite wings! till all the plume-dark air, And rude resounding shore are one wild cry. Here the plain harmless native his small flock, And herd diminutive of many hues, Tends on the little island's verdant swell, The shepherd's sea-girt reign; or, to the rocks Dire-clinging, gathers his ovarious food; Or sweeps the fishy shore! or treasures up The plumage, rising full, to form the bed Of luxury. And here a while the Muse, High hovering o'er the broad cerulean scene, Sees Caledonia, in romantic view: Her airy mountains, from the waving main, Invested with a keen diffusive sky, Breathing the soul acute; her forests huge, Incult, robust, and tall, by Nature's hand Planted of old; her azure lakes between, Pour'd out extensive, and of watery wealth Full; winding deep, and green, her fertile vales; With many a cool translucent brimming flood Wash'd lovely, from the Tweed (pure parent stream, Whose pastoral banks first heard my Doric reed, With, silvan Jed, thy tributary brook) To where the north-inflated tempest foams O'er Orca's or Betubium's highest peak: Nurse of a people, in Misfortune's school Train'd up to hardy deeds; soon visited By Learning, when before the gothic rage She took her western flight. A manly race, Of unsubmitting spirit, wise, and brave; Who still through bleeding ages struggled hard, (As well unhappy Wallace can attest, Great patriot-hero! ill requited chief!) To hold a generous undiminish'd state; Too much in vain! Hence of unequal bounds Impatient, and by tempting glory borne O'er every land, for every land their life Has flow'd profuse, their piercing genius plann'd, And swell'd the pomp of peace their faithful toil. As from their own clear north, in radiant streams, Bright over Europe bursts the boreal morn. Oh! is there not some patriot, in whose power That best, that godlike luxury is placed, Of blessing thousands, thousands yet unborn, Through late posterity? some, large of soul, To cheer dejected industry? to give A double harvest to the pining swain? And teach the labouring hand the sweets of toil? How, by the finest art, the native robe To weave; how white as hyperborean snow, To form the lucid lawn; with venturous oar How to dash wide the billow; nor look on, Shamefully passive while Batavian fleets Defraud us of the glittering finny swarms, That heave our friths, and crowd upon our shores; How all-enlivening trade to rouse, and wing The prosperous sail, from every growing port, Uninjured, round the sea-encircled globe; And thus, in soul united as in name, Bid Britain reign the mistress of the deep? Yes, there are such. And full on thee, Argyle, Her hope, her stay, her darling, and her boast, From her first patriots and her heroes sprung, Thy fond imploring country turns her eye; In thee with all a mother's triumph, sees Her every virtue, every grace combined, Her genius, wisdom, her engaging turn, Her pride of honour, and her courage tried, Calm, and intrepid, in the very throat Of sulphurous war, on Tenier's dreadful field. Nor less the palm of peace inwreathes thy brow: For, powerful as thy sword, from thy rich tongue Persuasion flows, and wins the high debate; While mix'd in thee combine the charm of youth, The force of manhood, and the depth of age. Thee, Forbes, too, whom every worth attends, As truth sincere, as weeping friendship kind, Thee, truly generous, and in silence great, Thy country feels through her reviving arts, Plann'd by thy wisdom, by thy soul inform'd; And seldom has she known a friend like thee. But see the fading many-colour'd woods, Shade deepening over shade, the country round Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk, and dun, Of every hue, from wan declining green To sooty dark. These now the lonesome Muse, Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walks, And give the Season in its latest view. Meantime, light shadowing all, a sober calm Fleeces unbounded ether: whose least wave Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn The gentle current: while illumined wide, The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, And through their lucid veil his soften'd force Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time, For those whom Wisdom and whom Nature charm, To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, And soar above this little scene of things: To tread low-thoughted Vice beneath their feet; To soothe the throbbing passions into peace; And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks. Thus solitary, and in pensive guise, Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead, And through the sadden'd grove, where scarce is heard One dying strain, to cheer the woodman's toil. Haply some widow'd songster pours his plaint, Far, in faint warblings, through the tawny copse: While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks, And each wild throat, whose artless strains so late Swell'd all the music of the swarming shades, Robb'd of their tuneful souls, now shivering sit On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock; With not a brightness waving o'er their plumes, And nought save chattering discord in their note. O let not, aim'd from some inhuman eye, The gun the music of the coming year Destroy; and harmless, unsuspecting harm, Lay the weak tribes a miserable prey, In mingled murder, fluttering on the ground! The pale-descending year, yet pleasing still, A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf Incessant rustles from the mournful grove; Oft startling such as, studious, walk below, And slowly circles through the waving air. But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams; Till choked, and matted with the dreary shower, The forest walks, at every rising gale, Roll wide the wither'd waste, and whistle bleak. Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields; And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race Their sunny robes resign. E'en what remain'd Of stronger fruits falls from the naked tree; And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around The desolated prospect thrills the soul. He comes! he comes! in every breeze the Power Of Philosophic Melancholy comes! His near approach the sudden starting tear, The glowing cheek, the mild dejected air, The soften'd feature, and the beating heart, Pierced deep with many a virtuous pang, declare. O'er all the soul his sacred influence breathes! Inflames imagination; through the breast Infuses every tenderness; and far Beyond dim earth exalts the swelling thought. Ten thousand thousand fleet ideas, such As never mingled with the vulgar dream, Crowd fast into the mind's creative eye. As fast the correspondent passions rise, As varied, and as high: Devotion raised To rapture, and divine astonishment; The love of Nature unconfined, and, chief, Of human race; the large ambitious wish, To make them blest; the sigh for suffering worth Lost in obscurity; the noble scorn Of tyrant pride; the fearless great resolve; The wonder which the dying patriot draws, Inspiring glory through remotest time; The awaken'd throb for virtue, and for fame; The sympathies of love, and friendship dear; With all the social offspring of the heart. Oh! bear me then to vast embowering shades, To twilight groves, and visionary vales; To weeping grottos, and prophetic glooms; Where angel forms athwart the solemn dusk, Tremendous sweep, or seem to sweep along; And voices more than human, through the void Deep sounding, seize the enthusiastic ear? Or is this gloom too much? Then lead, ye powers, That o'er the garden and the rural seat Preside, which shining through the cheerful hand In countless numbers blest Britannia sees; O lead me to the wide extended walks, The fair majestic paradise of Stowe! Not Persian Cyrus on Ionia's shore E'er saw such sylvan scenes; such various art By genius fired, such ardent genius tamed By cool judicious art; that, in the strife, All beauteous Nature fears to be outdone. And there, O Pitt, thy country's early boast, There let me sit beneath the shelter'd slopes, Or in that Temple where, in future times, Thou well shalt merit a distinguish'd name; And, with thy converse blest, catch the last smiles Of Autumn beaming o'er the yellow woods. While there with thee the enchanted round I walk, The regulated wild, gay Fancy then Will tread in thought the groves of attic land; Will from thy standard taste refine her own, Correct her pencil to the purest truth Of Nature, or, the unimpassion'd shades Forsaking, raise it to the human mind. Or if hereafter she, with juster hand, Shall draw the tragic scene, instruct her, thou, To mark the varied movements of the heart, What every decent character requires, And every passion speaks: O through her strain Breathe thy pathetic eloquence! that moulds The attentive senate, charms, persuades, exalts, Of honest Zeal the indignant lightning throws, And shakes Corruption on her venal throne. While thus we talk, and through Elysian vales Delighted rove, perhaps a sigh escapes: What pity, Cobham, thou thy verdant files Of order'd trees shouldst here inglorious range, Instead of squadrons flaming o'er the field, And long embattled hosts! when the proud foe, The faithless vain disturber of mankind, Insulting Gaul, has roused the world to war; When keen, once more, within their bounds to press Those polish'd robbers, those ambitious slaves, The British youth would hail thy wise command, Thy temper'd ardour and thy veteran skill. The western sun withdraws the shorten'd day; And humid Evening, gliding o'er the sky, In her chill progress, to the ground condensed The vapours throws. Where creeping waters ooze, Where marshes stagnate, and where rivers wind, Cluster the rolling fogs, and swim along The dusky-mantled lawn. Meanwhile the Moon Full-orb'd, and breaking through the scatter'd clouds, Shows her broad visage in the crimson'd east. Turn'd to the sun direct, her spotted disk, Where mountains rise, umbrageous dales descend, And caverns deep, as optic tube descries, A smaller earth, gives us his blaze again, Void of its flame, and sheds a softer day. Now through the passing cloud she seems to stoop, Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime. Wide the pale deluge floats, and streaming mild O'er the sky'd mountain to the shadowy vale, While rocks and floods reflect the quivering gleam, The whole air whitens with a boundless tide Of silver radiance, trembling round the world. But when half blotted from the sky her light, Fainting, permits the starry fires to burn With keener lustre through the depth of heaven; Or near extinct her deaden'd orb appears, And scarce appears, of sickly beamless white; Oft in this season, silent from the north A blaze of meteors shoots; ensweeping first The lower skies, they all at once converge High to the crown of heaven, and all at once Relapsing quick, as quickly reascend, And mix, and thwart, extinguish, and renew, All ether coursing in a maze of light. From look to look, contagious through the crowd, The panic runs, and into wondrous shapes The appearance throws: armies in meet array, Throng'd with aërial spears, and steeds of fire; Till the long lines of full extended war In bleeding fight commix'd, the sanguine flood Rolls a broad slaughter o'er the plains of heaven. As thus they scan the visionary scene, On all sides swells the superstitious din, Incontinent; and busy frenzy talks Of blood and battle; cities overturn'd, And late at night in swallowing earthquake sunk, Or hideous wrapt in fierce ascending flame; Of sallow famine, inundation, storm; Of pestilence, and every great distress; Empires subversed, when ruling fate has struck The unalterable hour: e'en Nature's self Is deem'd to totter on the brink of time. Not so the man of philosophic eye, And inspect sage; the waving brightness he Curious surveys, inquisitive to know The causes, and materials, yet unfix'd, Of this appearance beautiful and new. Now black, and deep, the night begins to fall, A shade immense! Sunk in the quenching gloom, Magnificent and vast, are heaven and earth. Order confounded lies; all beauty void; Distinction lost; and gay variety One universal blot: such the fair power Of light, to kindle and create the whole. Drear is the state of the benighted wretch, Who then, bewilder'd, wanders through the dark, Full of pale fancies, and chimeras huge; Nor visited by one directive ray, From cottage streaming, or from airy hall. Perhaps impatient as he stumbles on, Struck from the root of slimy rushes, blue, The wildfire scatters round, or gather'd trails A length of flame deceitful o'er the moss: Whither decoy'd by the fantastic blaze, Now lost and now renew'd he sinks absorb'd, Rider and horse, amid the miry gulf: While still, from day to day, his pining wife And plaintive children his return await, In wild conjecture lost. At other times, Sent by the better Genius of the night, Innoxious, gleaming on the horse's mane, The meteor sits; and shows the narrow path, That winding leads through pits of death, or else Instructs him how to take the dangerous ford. The lengthen'd night elapsed, the Morning shines Serene, in all her dewy beauty bright, Unfolding fair the last autumnal day. And now the mounting sun dispels the fog; The rigid hoar frost melts before his beam; And hung on every spray, on every blade Of grass, the myriad dew-drops twinkle round. Ah, see where, robb'd and murder'd, in that pit Lies the still heaving hive! at evening snatch'd, Beneath the cloud of guilt-concealing night, And fix'd o'er sulphur: while, not dreaming ill, The happy people, in their waxen cells, Sat tending public cares, and planning schemes Of temperance, for Winter poor; rejoiced To mark, full flowing round, their copious stores. Sudden the dark oppressive steam ascends; And, used to milder scents, the tender race, By thousands, tumble from their honey'd domes, Convolved, and agonizing in the dust. And was it then for this you roam'd the Spring, Intent from flower to flower? for this you toil'd Ceaseless the burning Summer heats away? For this in Autumn search'd the blooming waste, Nor lost one sunny gleam? for this sad fate? O Man! tyrannic lord! how long, how long Shall prostrate Nature groan beneath your rage, Awaiting renovation? when obliged, Must you destroy? of their ambrosial food Can you not borrow; and, in just return, Afford them shelter from the wintry winds; Or, as the sharp year pinches, with their own Again regale them on some smiling day? See where the stony bottom of their town Looks desolate, and wild; with here and there A helpless number, who the ruin'd state Survive, lamenting weak, cast out to death. Thus a proud city, populous and rich, Full of the works of peace, and high in joy, At theatre or feast, or sunk in sleep, (As late, Palermo, was thy fate) is seized By some dread earthquake, and convulsive hurl'd Sheer from the black foundation, stench-involved, Into a gulf of blue sulphureous flame. Hence every harsher sight! for now the day, O'er heaven and earth diffused, grows warm, and high; Infinite splendour! wide investing all. How still the breeze! save what the filmy thread Of dew evaporate brushes from the plain. How clear the cloudless sky? how deeply tinged With a peculiar blue! the ethereal arch How swell'd immense! amid whose azure throned The radiant sun how gay! how calm below The gilded earth! the harvest-treasures all Now gather'd in, beyond the rage of storms, Sure to the swain; the circling fence shut up; And instant Winter's utmost rage defied. While, loose to festive joy, the country round Laughs with the loud sincerity of mirth, Shook to the wind their cares. The toil-strung youth By the quick sense of music taught alone, Leaps wildly graceful in the lively dance. Her every charm abroad, the village-toast, Young, buxom, warm, in native beauty rich, Darts not unmeaning looks; and, where her eye Points an approving smile, with double force, The cudgel rattles, and the wrestler twines. Age too shines out; and, garrulous, recounts The feats of youth. Thus they rejoice; nor think That, with to-morrow's sun, their annual toil Begins again the never ceasing round. Oh, knew he but his happiness, of men The happiest he! who far from public rage, Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired, Drinks the pure pleasures of the Rural Life. What though the dome be wanting, whose proud gate, Each morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd Of flatterers false, and in their turn abused? Vile intercourse! what though the glittering robe Of every hue reflected light can give, Or floating loose, or stiff with mazy gold, The pride and gaze of fools! oppress him not? What though, from utmost land and sea purvey'd, For him each rarer tributary life Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps With luxury, and death? What though his bowl Flames not with costly juice; nor sunk in beds, Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night, Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state? What though he knows not those fantastic joys That still amuse the wanton, still deceive; A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain; Their hollow moments undelighted all? Sure peace is his; a solid life, estranged To disappointment, and fallacious hope: Rich in content, in Nature's bounty rich, In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the Spring, When heaven descends in showers; or bends the bough, When Summer reddens, and when Autumn beams; Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies Conceal'd, and fattens with the richest sap: These are not wanting; nor the milky drove, Luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowing vale; Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams, And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade, Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay; Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song, Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountain clear. Here too dwells simple Truth; plain Innocence; Unsullied Beauty; sound unbroken Youth, Patient of labour, with a little pleased; Health ever blooming; unambitious Toil; Calm Contemplation, and poetic Ease. Let others brave the flood in quest of gain, And beat, for joyless months, the gloomy wave. Let such as deem it glory to destroy Rush into blood, the sack of cities seek; Unpierced, exulting in the widow's wail, The virgin's shriek, and infant's trembling cry. Let some, far distant from their native soil, Urged or by want or harden'd avarice, Find other lands beneath another sun. Let this through cities work his eager way, By legal outrage and establish'd guile, The social sense extinct; and that ferment Mad into tumult the seditious herd, Or melt them down to slavery. Let these Insnare the wretched in the toils of law, Fomenting discord, and perplexing right, An iron race! and those of fairer front, But equal inhumanity, in courts, Delusive pomp and dark cabals, delight; Wreathe the deep bow, diffuse the lying smile, And tread the weary labyrinth of state. While he, from all the stormy passions free That restless men involve, hears, and but hears, At distance safe, the human tempest roar, Wrapp'd close in conscious peace. The fall of kings, The rage of nations, and the crush of states, Move not the man, who, from the world escaped, In still retreats and flowery solitudes, To Nature's voice attends, from month to month, And day to day, through the revolving year; Admiring, sees her in her every shape; Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart; Takes what she liberal gives, nor thinks of more. He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting germs, Marks the first bud, and sucks the healthful gale Into his freshen'd soul; her genial hours He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows, And not an opening blossom breathes in vain. In Summer he, beneath the living shade, Such as o'er frigid Tempè wont to wave, Or Hemus cool, reads what the Muse, of these, Perhaps, has in immortal numbers sung; Or what she dictates writes: and, oft an eye Shot round, rejoices in the vigorous year. When Autumn's yellow lustre gilds the world, And tempts the sickled swain into the field, Seized by the general joy, his heart distends With gentle throes; and, through the tepid gleams Deep musing, then he best exerts his song. E'en Winter wild to him is full of bliss. The mighty tempest, and the hoary waste, Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth, Awake to solemn thought. At night the skies, Disclosed, and kindled, by refining frost, Pour every lustre on the exalted eye. A friend, a book, the stealing hours secure, And mark them down for wisdom. With swift wing O'er land and sea imagination roams; Or truth, divinely breaking on his mind, Elates his being, and unfolds his powers; Or in his breast heroic virtue burns. The touch of kindred too and love he feels; The modest eye, whose beams on his alone Ecstatic shine; the little strong embrace Of prattling children, twined around his neck, And emulous to please him, calling forth The fond parental soul. Nor purpose gay, Amusement, dance, or song, he sternly scorns; For happiness and true philosophy Are of the social, still, and smiling kind. This is the life which those who fret in guilt, And guilty cities, never knew; the life, Led by primeval ages, uncorrupt, When Angels dwelt, and God himself, with Man! Oh Nature! all-sufficient! over all! Enrich me with the knowledge of thy works! Snatch me to Heaven; thy rolling wonders there, World beyond world, in infinite extent, Profusely scatter'd o'er the blue immense, Show me; their motions, periods, and their laws Give me to scan; through the disclosing deep Light my blind way: the mineral strata there; Thrust, blooming, thence the vegetable world; O'er that the rising system, more complex, Of animals; and higher still, the mind, The varied scene of quick-compounded thought, And where the mixing passions endless shift; These ever open to my ravish'd eye; A search, the flight of time can ne'er exhaust! But if to that unequal; if the blood, In sluggish streams about my heart, forbid That best ambition; under closing shades, Inglorious, lay me by the lowly brook, And whisper to my dreams. From Thee begin, Dwell all on Thee, with Thee conclude my song; And let me never, never stray from Thee!
James Thomson’s other poems:
1658
