Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,
Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, And only there, please highly for their sake.
Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought 210 Devis'd the weatherhouse, that useful toy!
Fearless of humid air and gath'ring rains,
Forth steps the man-an emblem of myself! More delicate, his tim'rous mate retires.
When winter soaks the fields, and female feet, Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, Or ford the rivulets, are best at home,
The task of new discov'ries falls on me.
At such a season, and with such a charge,
Once went I forth; and found, till then unknown,
A cottage, whither oft we since repair:
'Tis perch'd upon the green hill top, but close Environ'd with a ring of branching elms, That overhang the thatch, itself unseen
Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset
With foliage of such dark redundant growth,
I call'd the low-roof'd lodge the peasant's nest; And, hidden as it is, and far remote From such unpleasing sounds, as haunt the ear In village or in town, the bay of curs
Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, And infants clam'rous whether pleas'd or pain'd, Oft have I wish'd the peaceful covert mine. Here, I have said, at least I should possess The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.
It's elevated site forbids the wretch,
To drink sweet waters of the crystal well; He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,
And, heavy laden, brings his bev'rage home, Far-fetch'd and little worth; nor seldom waits
Dependant on the baker's punctual call,
To hear his creaking panniers at the door,
Angry, and sad, and his last crust consum'd.
So farewell envy of the peasant's nest! If solitude make scant the means of life, Society for me!-thou seeming sweet, Be still a pleasing object in my view;
My visit still, but never mine abode.
Not distant far, a length of colonnade Invites us. Monument of ancient taste,
Now scorn'd, but worthy of a better fate. Our fathers knew the value of a screen From sultry suns: and, in their shaded walks And long protracted bow'rs, enjoy'd at noon The gloom and coolness of declining day. We bear our shades about us; self-depriv'd Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree. Thanks to Benevolus-he spares me yet
John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq., of Weston Underwood,
These chesnuts rang'd in corresponding lines; And, though himself so polish'd, still reprieves The obsolete prolixity of shade.
Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast) A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip
Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. Hence, ancle deep in moss and flow'ry thyme, 270 We mount again, and feel at ev'ry step
Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, Rais'd by the mole, the miner of the soil.. He, not unlike the great ones of mankind, Disfigures Earth: and, plotting in the dark, Toils much to earn a monumental pile, That may record the mischiefs he has done.
The summit gain'd, behold the proud alcove, That crowns it! yet not all it's pride secures The grand retreat from injuries impress'd
By rural carvers, who with knives deface
The pannels, leaving an obscure, rude name, In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.
So strong the zeal t' immortalize himself
Beats in the breast of man, that ev'n a few, Few transient years, won from th' abyss abhorr'd Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, And even to a clown. Now roves the eye; And posted on this speculative height, Exults in it's command. The sheepfold here Pours out it's fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. At first, progressive as a stream, they seek The middle field; but scatter'd by degrees, Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. There from the sunburnt hayfield homeward
The loaded wain; while, lighten'd of it's charge,
The wain that meets it passes swiftly by;
The boorish driver leaning o'er his team
Vocif'rous, and impatient of delay.
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