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15. But from mountain, dell, or stream,
Not a flutt'ring zephyr springs; Fearful lest the noontide beam
Scorch its soft, its silken wings.
16. Not a leaf has leave to stir,
Nature's lull'd-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!
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 liamlet bound) Giant-like their shadows grow,
Lengtlı’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,
Carling on the silver lake.
As the trout, in speckled pride,
Playful from its bosom springs;
To the banks a ruffled tide
Verges in successive rings.
Tripping through the silken grass,
O’er the path-divided dale,
Mark the rose-complexion’d lass
With her well-pois'd milking pail.
Linnets with unnumber'd notes,
And the cuckow bird with two,
Tuning sweet their mellow throats
Bid the setting sun adieu. .
FROM THOMSON'S SEASONS. These, as they chango, 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,
With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year;
And oft' Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks;
And oft' at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales.
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfin'd,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
In Winter, awful Thou! with clouds and storms.
Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rollid,
Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing
Riding sublime, 'Thou bidd'st the world adore,
And humblest nature with thy northern blast.
Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train,
Yet so delightful mix’d, with such kind art,
Such beauty and beneficence combin'd;
Shade, unperceived, so soft'ning into shade;
And all so forming an harmonious whole,
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still.
But wandering oft, with brute-unconscious gaze,
Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres;
Works in the secret deep; shoots, streaming, thence
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring;
Flings from the sun direct the faming day;
Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth;
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life,
Nature, attend ! join every living soul,
Beneath the spacious teniple 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 religions awe.
And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar,
Who shake th' astonished 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 maze
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 miirgled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts,
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.
Ye Forests, bend; ye Harvests, waye to Him;
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.