Juvenilia :: :: University of Virginia Library

Forth let me walk along the green-clad fields,
When on the morning looks the eastern sun,
As from his wavy bed he rises bright
And opes the gilded windows of the sea.
High sings the lively lark, as with his wing,
Brushing the thin spread clouds, he skims the air;
Along the grove, in harmony confus'd,

Chirp the soft feather'd songsters, whistling now
With long drawn note, and now with thrilling song
Vibrating on the air: another sun
Reflected, seems to burn within the stream
A sky of glass; and all the scattered clouds
Descending, move in shadows, gliding soft
Around its dazzling face; the waters flame,
And o'er the golden light the burnish'd waves,
In sweet confusion, glitt'ring dance along.
The weeping willow o'er the gaudy scene
Hangs its lorn head, as tho' 'twould soothe its grief
With pleasing contemplation; green as spring,
And silent as the rev'rence of an angel:
While on the adverse bank the wand'ring boy
Views the bright image, and with hostile stone
Essays to break the beauteous orb; but, lo!
He sees it brighten in the sunny ray,
Wond'ring with vacant stare and open mouth,
Then plunging, sink within th' unbroken light.

Nor heed the animal creation, rous'd
From tiring sloth, the lazy sweets of sleep;
From the warm shed, slow moving o'er the plain,
The herded cattle go; the timid cow,
The vig'rous heifer, pity-bleating calf,
Meek-eyeing sheep, and primly-gazing ram.
Loud barks the guardian dog; the snorting steed

Snuffs the fresh air, and neighs along the vale.
Echo the circling hills: the lusty bull
Augments the pleasing universal noise
Of gladd'ning joy, and hoarsely lows around.
Nor is the scene beyond devoid of grace.
Far in the distant landscape, dimly seen,
Dashes in curling wreathes of hoary foam
The mist-creating cataract: slow along,
Thro' its full bed, in many a mazy way,
The winding river strays, when soft restrain'd
Within its mossy shores it onward moves
In limpid majesty; but when convuls'd
With the big torrent of the April show'r,
It bursts its rural prison, and with sweep,
Dreadful and swift, bounds o'er the vanish'd vale,
Glorious the floating scene! Each circled hill
Seems edg'd with quiv'ring lace, and all around
The hidden meadows, once so gaily green,
O'erlay'd with living silver; close behind,
In snug retreat, the tufted cottage lifts
Its sloping head, adorn'd with velvet moss,
And closely-creeping ivy, fawning round
The mantled wall in green servility.

High from the grove, o'ertopt, the palace wide
Looks o'er the lawn, and proudly seems to lift,
On weary pillars, to the meeting sky

Its high arch'd roof, with ev'ry art adorn'd
The soft Italia or the high-soul'd sons
Of strong Britannia boast; tho' still, perhaps,
Within is pallid guilt and foul disease,
Heart shrivell'd Av'rice, Sorrow's woe-worn form,
And Death's hard-outlin'd shadow, spectre dread,
Call'd in by mispent Wealth, or Dissipation mad.

Yet loftier far, behind the massy pile,
Than human architect can raise, high heav'd
By nature's all creative hand, sublime
Stands the huge mountain, with eternal green
Mantled profuse—while to its spotted side,
The wool-white sheep add sweet variety;
As pleasing to the distant view they seem
With spangles fair to deck its grassy robe.

Last, o'er the dim horizon, stretching wide,
Bends the blue bow of heav'n, which He, who built
This rolling earth, o'er its huge surface threw,
A vaulting dome; with azure glowing deep
Painted the dazzling hollow; and where shade
Was oft required, threw, o'er the glorious whole,
The shadowing clouds, with pencil he that shone
The star of Italy, expressive Raphael,
The strict Corregio, Titian's glowing hand,
Fus'li's gigantic fancy, or the fire
Of Britain's fav'rite West, could ne'er essay

Faintly to imitate.—Man, to the day
Quick rises, shaking from his nervous limbs
The Nessian cloak of sloth, unfit to drink;
In its absorbing texture, the full tide
Of liquid health, that glows thro' all his veins,
Warms his bold heart, and revels in his cheek.

The rustic farmer hastens o'er his fields;
And, with directing hand, the rural lord
Rules his attentive lab'rers; guides them now
To pluck the intruding tare, or scatt'ring throw
Into the well-plough'd furrows of the earth
The lib'ral grain; and now with smiling face,
When harvest comes to crop the fruitful year,
Bids them prepare the sickle sounding harsh
Thro' the diminish'd fields; or gradual build
The equal hay-rick; till the cone-topt pile,
Erected neat, gives quiet, ease, and peace
To joying labour. In the plain beyond,
The humble shepherd, kneeling by the brook,
Dips his hard breakfast in the soft'ning stream,
Nor heeds the rough clad goat, with rolling eye,
Viewing each wish'd-for mouthful, while he shares,
Gen'rous, with faithful Tray his scanty crust.
Or stretch'd in sunshine warm, his shading hand
Plac'd o'er his half-shut eyes, he views askance
The subject flock, some frisking o'er the field

In harmless sport; some in the welcome beam
Basking, devoid of care; while others, prest
With craving hunger, bend their woolly necks
To the green earth, and crop the verdant grass:
Careless he whistles loud, nor wishes to be great.

On scenes like these, where Harmony and Peace
Walk hand in hand, for ever could I dwell,
From chrystal morning to the jet-rob'd night.
These are the themes that lift the grateful soul
To Heav'n and love; love, that exalts the mind
To mix its thoughts with God; Him, whom the sun
Shines to obey, whose unseen glories time
Flies to make known; with whom all place is presence,
And space immeasurable, fulness: great,
And largely good, and infinite is He.