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15. But from mouutain, dell, or stream,
Not a flutt'ring zeplıyr springs; Fearful lest the noontide beam
Scorch its soft, its silken wings.
16. Not a leaf has leave to stir,
Nature's lullid-serene--and still! Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.
17. Languid is the landscape round,
Till the fresh-descending shower, Grateful to the thirsty ground,
Raises ev'ry fainting flower.
18. Now the hill - the hedge-is green,
Now the warblers' throats in tune; Blithsome is the verdant scene,
Brighten'd by the beams of Noon!
19. O'er the heath the heifer strays
Free ;-(the furrow'd task is done) Now the village windows blaze,
Burnish'd by the setting sun.
20. Now he sets behind the hill,
Sinking from a golden sky; Can the pencil's mimic skill
Copy the refulgent dye?
21. Trudging as the ploughmen go
(To the smoking hamlet bound) Giant-like their shadows grow,
Length’ning o'er the level ground.
22. Where the rising forest spreads
Shelter for the lordly dome, To their high-built airy beds
See the rooks returning home.
23. As the lark with vary'd tune
Carols to the evening loud, Mark the mild resplendent moon
Breaking through a parted cloud !
24. Now the hermit howlet peeps
From the barn or twisted brake; And the blue mist slowly creeps,
Curling on the silver lake.
Playful from its bosom springs;
Verges in successive rings.
O’er the path-divided dale,
With her well-pois'd milking pail.
And the cuckow bird with two,
Bid the setting sun adieu.
FROM THOMSON'S SEASONS.
as they change, Almighty Father! these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; And every sense and every heart is joy.
Then comes Thy glory in the Summer-months,
Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
Nature, attend! join every living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join, and, ardent, raise One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales! Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes; Oh talk of him in solitary glooms! Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely-waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. And ye, whose bolder note is heard afaru Who shake th’astonish'd world, lift high to heaven Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye Brooks, attune, ye trembling Rills! And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong Torrents, rapid and profound; Ye softer floods, that lead the humid ma Along the vale; and thou, majestic Main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound His stupendous praise; whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, Herbs, and Fruits, and Flowers, In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. Ye Forests, bend; ye Harvests, wave to Him; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.