O let not, aim'd from some inhuman eye, still, shower, The forest walks, at ev'ry 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 872.-AUTUMN EVENING SCENE. But see the fading many-colour'd woods, Shade deepening over shade, the country round Imbrown ; a crowded umbrage dusk and dun, Of ev'ry hue, from wan declining green To sooty dark. These now the lonesome muse, Low whisp'ring, 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 virtue 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 chatt'ring discord in their note. Their sunny robes resign. E'en what re main'd Of stronger fruits falls from the naked tree; And woods, fields, gardens, orchards all around, The desolated prospect thrills the soul. The western sun withdraws the shorten'd day, And humid evening, gliding o'er the sky, In her chill progress, to the ground con densed The vapour 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 clouds she seems to stoop, Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime. Wide the pale deluge floats, and streaming mild O'er the skied mountain to the shadowy vale, While rocks and floods reflect the quiv'ring gleam ; The whole air whitens with a boundless tide Of silver radiance trembling round the world. The lengthen'd night clapsed, the morning shines The rigid hoar-frost melts before his beam ; round. James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. 873.-A WINTER LANDSCAPE. Through the hushed air the whit’ning shower descends, At first thin-wavering, till at last the flakes Fall broad and wide, and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow. The cherished fields Put on their winter robe of purest white : 'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts Along the mazy current. Low the woods Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid All winter drives along the darken'd air, heaps, Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul ! What black despair, what horror, fills his heart! When for the dusky spot which fancy feign'd, His tufted cottage rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the track and bless'd abode of man; While round him night resistless closes fast, And every tempest howling o'er his head, Renders the savage wilderness more wild. Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep, A dire descent! beyond the power of frost; Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge Smoothed up with snow; and what is land unknown, What water of the still unfrozen spring, In the loose marsh or solitary lake, Where the fresh fountain from the bcttom boils. These check his fearful steps, and down he sinks Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,. His wife, his children, and his friends, un sun Faint from the west, emits his evening ray; ох Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around The winnowing store, and claim the little boon Which Providence assigns them. One alone, The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man His annual visit. Half afraid, he first Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights On the warm hearth; then hopping o'er the floor, Eyes all the smiling family askance, And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is : Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, Though timorous of heart, and hard beset By death in various forms, dark snares and dogs, And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kine Eye the bleak heaven, and next, the glist'ning earth, With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dis persed, Dig for the wither'd herb through heaps of snow. As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense, blast. James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. 874.-A HYMN. These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; 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 unconfined, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In Winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll’d, Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing, Riding sublime, thou bidst 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 combined ; Shade, unperceived, so softening 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, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring : Flings from the Sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempests And let me catch it as I muse along. 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, Yo constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day! best image here below Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, From world to world, the vital ocean round, On Nature write with every beam his praise. The thunder rolls; be 'hush'd the prostrate world; While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound: the broad responsive low, Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song Burst from the groves! and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night his praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, Assembled men, to the deep organ join The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear, At solemn pauses, through the swelling base ; And, as each mingling flame increases each, In one united ardour rise to Heaven. Or if you rather chuse the rural shade, And find a fane in every secret grove ; There let the shepherd's fute, the virgin's lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. For me, when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray 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 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 afar, Who shake th' astonish'd world, lift high to Heaven With brother-brutes the human race had grazed ; None e'er had soar'd to fame, none honour'd been, none praised.. Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams; more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat. Should Fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song; where first the Sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on the Atlantic isles; 'tis nought to me; Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste, as in the city full ; And where he vital breathes, there must be joy. When ev'n at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey : there, with new powers, praise. Great Homer's song had never fired the breast To thirst of glory, and heroic deeds ; Sweet Maro's Muse, sunk in inglorious rest, Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds : The wits of modern time had told their beads, And monkish legends been their only strains ; Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt in weeds, Our Shakspeare stroll’d and laugh'd with Warwick swains, Ne had my master Spenser charm'd his Mulla's plains. : Dumb too had been the sage historie Muse, And perish'd all the sons of ancient fame; Those starry lights of virtue, that diffuse Through the dark depth of time their vivid flame, Had all been lost with such as have no name. Who then had scorn’d his ease for others' good ? Who then had toil'd rapacious men to tame ? Who in the public breach devoted stood, And for his country's cause been prodigal of blood ? ܪ A thousand shapes you wear with ease, Thine is the balmy breath of morn, Descending angels bless thy train, Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell! 876.–ODE. O Nightingale, best poet of the grove, That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee, Blest in the full possession of thy love : O lend that strain, sweet nightingale, to me ! James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride, Dare not be blest lest envious tongues should blame : And hence, in vain I languish for my bride ; O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame. James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. 877.-HYMN ON SOLITUDE. Hail, mildly pleasing Solitude, Companion of the wise and good, But, from whose holy, piercing eye, The herd of fools and villains fly. Oh! how I love with thee to walk, And listen to thy whisper'd talk, Which innocence and truth imparts, And melts the most obdurate hearts. 878.—THE HAPPY MAN. He's not the Happy Man to whom is given A plenteous fortune by indulgent Heaven ; Whose gilded roofs on shining columns rise, And painted walls enchant the gazer's eyes ; Whose table flows with hospitable cheer, And all the various bounty of the year ; Whose valleys smile, whose gardens breathe the spring, Whose carved mountains bleat, and forests sing; For whom the cooling shade in Summer twines, While his full cellars give their generous wines; From whose wide fields unbounded Autumn ponrs A golden tide into his swelling stores; |
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