Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems

By the Rev. James Hurdis ... In Three Volumes

Hurdis, James (1763-1801)

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II.

VOL. II.

III.

VOL. III.

TEARS OF AFFECTION,

THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE.

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III. VOL. III.

TEARS OF AFFECTION,

A POEM, Occasioned by THE DEATH OF A SISTER TENDERLY BELOVED.

Nos societ tumulus, societ nos obsecro cœlum.
Sir T. More.

Eja age in amplexus, cara Maria, redi.
Lowth.

'Tis done, 'tis done, the bitter hour is past,
And Isabel my treasure, my delight,
Is number'd with the dead. I see the hearse
With sable plumes and sullen-footed steeds
The village church approach. I see the corse,
From its dark cell releas'd, by many a hand
Uplifted heavily. I hear the bell
Toll to the slow and melancholy step
Of mute procession, the white priest before,
The mourners following, and in the midst,
Thee my delight, my pleasure, and my hope,
Under the flowing pall. I see my love
Borne thro' the portal of her native church,
Thence never to return. I hear a voice
Consign her to oblivion, dust to dust,
Ashes to ashes.

Everlasting God,
Author of life, and sovereign of death,
Why hast thou stript me of this lovely gem,
The glory of my bosom? Was my tongue
Unwilling to intreat thee? Was my knee
Tardy to kneel? or did my anxious heart
Ask without fervour for the life it sought?
Mysterious Being, with unceasing prayer
Have I thy throne approach'd, beseeching health
For this my dearest blessing. With large tears
Have I thy grace intreated day and night,
Requesting rather pain and poverty
Than this so bitter loss. Yet still in vain
Have I besought thee, and thy will be done.
I know there is not righteousness in man,
And of the blessings which I yet enjoy
I nothing merit. Loud as I complain'd,
Devoutly as I pray'd, thine ear was shut
Without injustice; and the pains I feel
Are the due wages of my mean desert.

Eternal God, must I no more enjoy

The genial comforts which thy liberal hand
Once shed about me? Must yon lonely cot
Know me no more? yon wood-besprinkled vale
Echo no longer to my careless song?
No! my sweet treasure Isabel is gone,
And in yon rural mansion lives no more
The village Curate. To some stranger's eye
Must it unfold its blossoms, the sweet buds
Which art has taught its windows to surround.
To mine they give no pleasure, nor to me
Smiles, as it did, the valley or the brook,
The wood, the coppice, the paternal oak,
Or village steeple station'd on the hill.
No! my sweet treasure Isabel is gone.
Some messenger of God my door has pass'd
From earth returning, saw the beauteous flower,
Transported gather'd it, and in his hand
Bore it to heav'n rejoicing. Lo! my tears!
They flow for Isabel, whom these my eyes,
When first they wak'd to reason and to sense,
Found a poor friendless infant at my side
In the same cradle sleeping. With a smile

And arms outstretch'd it pleaded for my love,
And won affection which no time could kill,
No accident abate. Our souls were one,
One were our hopes, our pleasures, and our pains.
Wept Isabel? into her wounded heart
Sweet consolation her companion pour'd.
Droop'd with distemper her unhealthy mate?
She at his side sat weeping, sooth'd his pain
With gentle eye-drops and the tender tone
Of sympathy maternal, nor forbore
Till rosy welfare to his cheek return'd.

Then sported they together, from the world
Long time remote, where yon enormous downs
Shoulder the eastern moon. The mountain's side
They scal'd together, on his airy brow
Together loiter'd, and together bowl'd
The bounding flint into the vale below.
Together stood they trembling on the cliff,
To view the wide unlimited expanse
Of ocean green beneath, what time the storm
His azure realm had troubled, and at large

The tempest-loving porpoise thro' his waves
Flounder'd unheeding. On the pebbly beach
With painful step they travell'd side by side,
Shrunk at the thund'ring downfall of the surge,
And chas'd the flying foam. Never apart
Till Education at her season came,
Sever'd their hands, and bade the boy averse
To learning's distant fane her steps attend.

Yet still tow'rd Isabel's belov'd retreat
A longing eye he cast, her parting tears
Remember'd, her engaging smile, her look
Of meek affection, her impassion'd kiss.
Oft on the spotless sheet with breathing pen
He pour'd the tender sentiment he felt.
She the warm line perus'd, and dwelt with pride
On ev'ry glowing period.

So increas'd
Love not to be subdued, and like the moon
To ampler plenitude and sweeter day
Proceeded hourly; but not like the moon

Increas'd to wane, augmented but to change.
No, my sweet Isabel, thy faithful love
Knew no decline; from day to day it grew,
From year to year, an amaranthine flower
Unchangeable. With exquisite delight
She welcom'd home the countenance she lov'd,
What time Vacation 'gan his airy dance,
And left Tuition nodding o'er his books
In Academus' shades: with show'r of joy
Welcom'd the day when Education's claims
Drew to a period, and the youth was her's,
Never to leave her more.

Then to the cot
Not unaccompanied by those they lov'd
Contented they withdrew. Then life began,
And sweetly pass'd it by their happy door,
While they and health and innocence within
Sat at the board together. There they dwelt,
And often rose in the sweet morn of May,
To watch the slow and timorous return

Of renovated Spring. With eye well-pleas'd
They saw the sun industrious from his couch
Still on the morrow with an earlier smile
His beauteous dawn dispense; with joyful heart
Noted the progress of the gradual vale
Slowly reviving, saw the op'ning bud
Spread its incautious blossom to the breeze,
The tender leaf for its protection spring,
And gloried to behold the lonely oak
In tardy foliage cloth'd. Yes, day by day
'Twas thy supreme and innocent delight
With me, my Isabel, the plant and flower,
The shrub and the espalier, the high wood,
The hedge-row, field, and orchard to observe,
Each in its turn with vegetative life
Freely endued, and, as its season came,
Clad in peculiar honours. With thy eye
Has mine enchanted round the garden stray'd,
And oft have I beheld thee with a smile
Thy families protecting, raising some,
Some wedding to the marriageable stem,
And some with dew-drops cheering.

Ah! no more
Must thy sweet converse in the garden shade
My list'ning ear engage. Thou shalt no more
Hear me discourse of wisdom freely shed
On ev'ry work below, and to the sight
Of him who searches easy to be seen.
Our eyes no more upon the bloom of spring
Shall dwell together. Never shall I hear
Thy tongue again the concert of the grove
Applaud, and mark at thy request the strain
Of many a warbler singing to his mate.
The bird of morn , that on the sun-beam floats,
What time he darts it from the deep aslant,
And smites unseen the flecker'd roof of heav'n,
Shall no more wake thee with his early song
In wild division warbled. Nor again
Her solo anthem shall the bird of night ,
Heard with attention, to thy watchful ear
In the still coppice vary. Eve and morn
Participated pleasure shall no more

To us distribute. With thy arm in mine
I shall no more the sober walk enjoy
In the still ev'ning vale, what time the rook
With whisp'ring wing brushes the midway air,
To the high wood impatient to return.
We shall no more yon family of oaks,
Which crowds the bottom of the gloomy vale,
Visit together, when the shades of night
Double the horrors of their mingled boughs.
We shall not listen to the free complaint
Of the day-dreading partridge, oft dispers'd,
And often pitied by thy tongue and mine.
We shall not hear with sympathetic heart
The distant bell, whose deep and equal tone
Tolls to the grave some relative deceas'd,
Some child, some parent, or some spouse belov'd,
And dear to them who follow, as ourselves
Were precious to each other.

No! dear girl,
Thy own sad knell has toll'd. My wounded heart
Has yearn'd at thy decease, and tho' my foot

Refus'd to follow to the yawning grave
Thy cold remains, my overflowing eye
Has wept thee plenteously. It weeps thee still,
And daily, while I may, the silent spot
Where thy poor reliques rest, with swelling heart
Will I revisit. Daily by thy grave
Will I the luxury of grief profuse
Indulge, and dwell a statue on the spot
Where the dark vault its stony jaws has clos'd
On Isabel my treasure, and ere long
Shall close on me. The solitary walls
Which guard thy corse shall my domestic Muse
With unaffected eulogy inscribe,
And place her breathing tablet o'er thy bones
With the deep sigh of exquisite regret.
My tongue shall oft report thee, and my feet
Rejoice to be detain'd, while at thy side
I tell the moving tale of thy desert.
Here sleeps my Isabel, the brightest gem
Heav'n in my crown had plac'd, my bosom-star,
The sweet companion of my lonely hours,
Whose presence made a moment of a day,

Whose absence makes a century of an hour.
With me she tripp'd upon the airy down,
With me she loiter'd in the sunny vale,
With me applauded nature, ever fair,
Revolve in what vicissitude she will.
In ev'ry season of the beauteous year
Her eye was open, and with studious love
Read the divine Creator in his works.
Chiefly in thee, sweet Spring, when ev'ry nook
Some latent beauty to her wakeful search
Presented, some sweet flow'r, some virtual plant.
In ev'ry native of the hill and vale
She found attraction, and where beauty fail'd,
Applauded odour or commended use.
So was the wild geranium to her breast,
However simple and however plain,
A welcome ornament; germander so,
With his blue flow'r on ev'ry bank dispers'd,
No guest impertinent. The humble vetch
Her posy grac'd, and the pale rose of prime.
The orchis elegant, with many a tier
Of fly-resembling blossoms each o'er each

Pagoda-like dispos'd. With tender sense
The pimpernel, which to the humid morn,
Ere yet the shower-shedding cloud appears,
Its bosom closes, and presages wet.
The tansey with its bloom of gold, and leaf
Verdant above, with silver lin'd beneath.
The lujula, which often on the bank
Dwells by the woodland strawberry, and presents
A leaf not less delicious than his fruit,
A flow'r superior.

Such and thousands more,
Leisurely gather'd, have thy hand and breast,
Dear Isabel, adorn'd, while I well pleas'd
Have mark'd thy studious search, and unperceiv'd
Drawn thee thus loit'ring in unutter'd song;
Or idly wound the clasping eglantine
About thy crown, or fill'd thy hair with flow'rs
Of the sweet woodbine, whose maternal branch
Suckles the bee with honey and the moth.
Yes, gentle maid, thy steps have I pursu'd
In search of summer beauties, and observ'd

Myriads that wak'd me to delight and joy,
But none so fair, so lovely as thyself.
With thee have I admir'd the shady grove,
The sunny champaign, the extensive weald
Scatter'd with steeples, messuages, and mills,
And dwelt on many a pleasurable spot
Of intersected pasture, with its stack,
Cottage and lodge, few sheep and grazing cow,
Deeming content and happiness were there.
With thee have I applauded the deep vale,
Its verdure mellowing as it stole away,
To either margin of a winding stream
Presenting fainter shadows, softer woods;
With thee beheld with smile affectionate
Our native downs remote, hill behind hill,
Gigantic family, some near, some far,
Withdrawing till their faint expiring tops
Were almost lost and melted into air.
With thee have I delighted still to rove
At morn, at eve, in twilight, and at noon,
Long as sweet summer lasted. Chiefly then
When tufts of primrose smil'd upon the bank,

Gracing the verge of some translucent stream,
Or glassy lake, whose mirror their soft flow'rs
Reflected softer to the loit'rer's eye.
Or when the strawberry with ruddy cheek
Provok'd the finger to be plucking still,
When fragrant honeysuckle his sweet flow'r
Along the hedge-row scatter'd, and the breeze
Of ev'ning freely his perfume dispens'd;
When blossom'd clover, or the martial bean,
The hayrick newly built, or bitter hop
Emitting from the oast a grateful steam,
Fill'd all the vale with odours. Arm in arm
Have we the dews of ev'ning often met,
And the pale ray of the September moon,
What time ascending with discolour'd cheek
She peer'd above the cloud or highland wood,
And silently improving as she rose
Hung o'er the faded landscape full of light;
A glorious lamp, to cheer a boundless hall
Floating across the living dome of heav'n,
Suspended upon nothing. Arm in arm
Have we the sun of morning on the brow

Yet unapparent welcom'd, and his soft
Emergent glory like the bee enjoy'd,
Roving from bank to bank, from hill to hill.
Along the meadow now, or thro' the field
Of sheaves erect, or barley by the scythe
In frequent lines dispos'd, or fertile oat.
Now by the stream, to hear the liquid lapse
Of Rother gliding o'er some pebbly shoal,
Or with hoarse tumult thro' the foamy dam
And idle mill-wheel falling. Homeward now
Thro' many a garden which the foster'd hop
Shades with his branch prolific, yet untouch'd:
Now to some quarter where his honours fall,
Thro' many a family who pluck his flow'rs,
And fill the bin with gold, there to delay,
And haply some assist the pole to strip,
Bestowing freely a few moments toil
To mark how industry her task pursues,
With finger never weary, singing still.
Now to the village, whose aspiring church
High on a hillock in the valley stands,
And smiles with glory in the rising sun,

As if it lov'd the prospect it adorns.
How sweet the pleasure then, in some lone nook
Under a precipice, or lofty wood,
To pause and listen, while the village bells,
By distance mellow'd, their melodious tones
Each after other to the feeding ear
Softly persuasive utter'd; faintly heard
Sometimes, and scarce more audible, remote,
Than the mellifluous octave, gently touch'd
By some impassion'd songstress, to relieve
Her soul-subduing song; sometimes more bold,
A sweet harmonious diapason swell
Of gradual increase, by the breeze at length
In loud confusion huddled on the ear,
Till echo chid them, and they died again.

The Lark.

The Nightingale.

Ah me! such pleasures shall be mine no more.
My lov'd companion, whose endearing smile
And sensible remark made all things sweet,
Attends my paths no more. My gentle friend

Is snatch'd away to Heav'n. Content is gone,
And sorrow saddens every step I tread.
Dear spirit, come again. In some lone hour,
While thus I sit in melancholy thought,
With eyes intent upon the quiv'ring flame
That plays along the hearth, and shed my tears
Without reluctance, open wide the door,
Steal to my side unseen, and with a kiss,
As often wont, my reverie disperse.
Recall me with a smile from the dark gloom
Of woe and discontent, and once again
Bring to my side sweet peace; for she is fled,
And has been long departed. When disease
First prey'd on thee, my treasure, she withdrew,
And wander'd God knows whither. Cruel maid!
She left me tho' I lov'd her, and is gone
With those to linger who shall prize her less.
Then come again, dear spirit, come again,
And let thy smile exhilarate a soul
Which cannot live and be content alone.
I will esteem thee more and chide thee less,
And nothing utter which thy heart shall wound,

Tho' death divide us never. Want of ease,
And frequent sense of agony conceal'd,
Has sometimes made me in the wayward hour
E'en thee, thou blameless innocent, reprove;
And thou hast wept to ease an aching heart,
Which almost burst at my undue rebuke.
Return again, sweet spirit. Let me weep,
And make atonement for the wrong I own.
Thou wilt not blame me. Guilty as I am,
Forgiveness shall be mine. Wert thou my judge,
My debt of trespass would be small indeed.

Come, let me hold thee with a father's love,
And yield thee benefits thrice more in weight
Than father ever on his child bestow'd.
Thou art my daughter. When my weeping Muse
The filial Marg'ret drew, she copied thee.
Nor can I deem thee to the brilliant gem
Of More inferior, tho' with justice styl'd
The grace of Britain. Piety was thine,

As piety was her's. Good humour, love,
Compassion, pleasantry and soft address,
Exterior symbols of a mind within
Gentle, humane, and friendly, grac'd you both.
Both from attentive childhood's earliest hour
Were by the Muses nurtur'd. Marg'ret's eye
Delighted ever on the page to dwell
Of sweet instruction, and no leisure hour
Neglected Isabel, and not improv'd;
Pursuing still the multifarious tale
Of general story, of the world at large
Discoursing, ancient continent and new,
Of kingdoms born, and mighty states deceas'd,
Of wars and victories and routed hosts,
And millions slain, of whom and of their deeds
But in the classic page no trace exists.
Now to the changes of her native isle
Strictly attentive, from its earliest birth
The growth of pow'r she trac'd, and gradual rise
Of commerce, feeble in its first essay,
Spreading another and another sail,
Till ocean swarm'd with ventures, till excess

Came to the shores, till luxury began,
And exquisite refinement wondrous nice
Allow'd no blemish in the work she sought.
The birth of learning then, and childish march
Of science, yet an infant led by strings,
She mark'd, and thro' successive ages watch'd
The puny stripling till he grew to man.
With sages thus which every age adorn'd,
Philosophers and scholars, she ere long
Had intimate acquaintance, and the tale
Of anecdote peculiar still pursued,
And gloried to remember. Ye whose pens
In moral lesson have your country taught,
Say which of you she knew not? studious ever
Of your instructive and amusing line,
Whether it march'd in solemn state along,
Or wanton'd idly to arrest the eye,
And lead the slumb'ring judgment unawares
To sense of duty. Which of you, ye bards,
Had she not follow'd thro' your airy flights?
Whether aloft in Epic song sublime
And bold Pindaric soaring, or beneath

Flutt'ring in humble verse, or steadier song
Warbling suspended in the midway heav'n.
From the wild terrace of the British muse
She ev'ry flow'r had gather'd, and dispos'd
In cabinet secure her posied sweets,
The weed rejecting ever. Witness these
So neatly penn'd, so carefully preserv'd,
Volumes of beauty, for the leisure eye
And faithless memory copied. Prospers here
The puniest blossom of the classic muse,
Here flourishes the fairest. Chiefly thine,
Thou bard of nature, Shakespeare. Milton, thine;
Thine, Dryden, from a mound of rubbish cull'd,
Yet not inferior to the best that blow.
Thine, Spenser, to the antiquarian eye
Soberly pleasing. Butler, thine, replete
With learning, sense, and wit. Roscommon, thine,
Judicious, elegant; and, Otway, thine,
Applauded and reprov'd. Thine, Pope, as gems
Not seldom lustrous, sometimes tinsel-ray'd.
Thine, gentle Pomfret, not to be despis'd;

And, nebulous Blackmore, thine. Thine, charming Rowe,
Politest grace of the dramatic page;
And thine, poetic Prior. Parnel, thine,
To me of lovely fragrance. Thomson, thine;
And thine, more musical, descriptive less,
Young, in whose tedious and protracted song
Still gleams and still expires the cloudy day
Of genuine poetry. Thine too are there,
Impetuous Akenside, as thunder strong.
Thine, awful, pleasing, persecuted Gray.
Thine, lovelorn Littleton; and, Shenstone, thine,
An artificial nosegay made of shells.
And thine, not least esteem'd, tho' latest nam'd,
Ingenious Cowper. From thy various Muse,
Sweet bard, she frequent entertainment sought,
Nor long could seek in vain. Upon thy page
Her eye was feeding, when invidious death
Her bosom wounded with his poison'd shaft.
And soon she thought thy labour to repay
With some fair pledge of honour and esteem,

By her own art accomplish'd. Time to come,
Far as the ken of certainty may reach,
She to display had purpos'd, and thine ear
With sweet prophetic narrative to feed
As long as hunger would. For she had skill
The moon from her high orbit to decoy,
And hold her spell-bound in the midst of heav'n,
While she propounded question, at what hour
The phasy wand'rer with decreasing orb
Her course anomalous fulfill'd unseen;
Or at what hour with half replenish'd horn
She grac'd the brow of eve, or when replete
Rose in full glory in the belt of night.
Then question sprung, if in her annual course
Ofttimes the world embracing, thro' the band
Which marks the fancied circuit of the sun
At her renewal, or her full-fac'd hour,
She pass'd. Affirmative reply with style
Correct was noted, and from thence arose
Examen nice, how near or how remote
The node she sail'd to, or the node she left;
And whether as she journey'd, void or fill'd,

She touch'd the distant shadow of the earth,
Or shadow'd earth herself. Earth's shadow then
Was feebly pictur'd, and the point exact
By computation noted, where the orb
Of night first smote it, and her borrow'd beam
Slowly submitted, till her faded cheek
Was all with wan deliquium sicklied o'er.
Her central course athwart the shade she cross'd,
And ev'ry moment of her pallid march
Were represented then, till her thick veil
Earth drew aside, impatient of delay,
And the sweet loss she mourn'd. Then glow'd anew
The silver crescent with improving horn,
And the fair orb thro' all her changes pass'd
Of wane and increase in a summer's eve.
The moon thus portray'd in her languid hour,
Question arose what time her rayless orb
The sunbeam intercepted, and how large
The portion sever'd from his ardent globe
By her intruding disc; at what bright hour
She 'gan invade him, and her central path,
Whether it smote his axis in the midst,

Total eclipse inducing, or a ring
Of glory sparing on his utmost skirt.

Such arduous queries would the fair one ask,
And reason answer'd, on her spotless blank
The luminaries painting, each in turn
Involv'd in partial or in total gloom;
The one long struggling with her adverse hour,
The other soon victorious. Nor alone
Computed she the labours of the moon
Or parent sun, as their expiring balls
The passant year alarm'd, or years to come
Clouded with idle terrors yet unborn.
Into the dark abysm of ages past
An eye inquisitive she threw, and oft
The credulous historian, copying still
The date erroneous, with unerring art
Chastis'd and rectified, the glorious fact
To its lost hour restoring, till the page
Of maim'd chronology spake truth alone.

Such was thy skill, dear maid, by nature taught

The maze of heav'nly motions to explore.
Nor this thy only art; in numbers vers'd,
And able early to untie with ease
The problematic knot, howe'er delay'd
By fraction cumbersome, and hard to rule.
Thine was the pow'r, when calculation swarm'd
With digits numberless, and scarce could urge
Her toilsome process, by unwieldy size
Retarded, to conduct with ease the mind
Thro' all its movements to the truth it sought
By that sweet art of the wild Arab learn'd.
Compendious method, whose disputing march
Relieves the soul of effort, and cuts short
The labour of attention, making truth
To him who millions agitates involv'd
No longer vex'd and tedious, nor to him
Who geometric inference pursues,
Still on the letter'd diagram intent.

Thine also was the art, to touch with skill
And various feeling the persuasive stop
Of organ mellow-ton'd, slow movement first

And solemn fingering, till the lapt soul
With sweet indulgence satiated 'gan doze
As if by opium lull'd, and ill perceiv'd
The melting lapse of diapason sounds,
Harmonious combination falling slow
Into a tremulous expiring close.
Then the brisk fugue with captivating air,
Expressive pause, and tone distinct and loud,
Led like some active hero to the field,
Led and was follow'd by battalions firm,
Till universal uproar fill'd the ear.
Then follow'd tender air, that stole along
Like softest poetry, whose dying fall
Might ravish heav'n itself. Then solemn march,
Impulse scarce needing of the pow'rful trump
And loud reverberating drum, to wake
Reposing valour to gigantic deeds.
Then air accompanied by verse and voice,
Haply of Handel's muse, for some sweet grace
Selected and esteem'd, haply deriv'd
From genius less improv'd, from living art,
Which seldom to the judgment dares appeal,

Her song compiling for the ear alone.
Religious anthem then thy spreading hand
With its full concord swell'd, whether it breath'd
Melodious solo or harmonious verse,
Or shouted chorus awfully devout,
Enrich'd with all the mysteries of tone.

What grace had music which to thee was new
Or hard to copy, evermore intent
Upon her learned pleasure-giving page?
And yet not so intent, but that thy eye
Would often hunger for sedater fare,
Would thirst th' amusing characters of Greece
In Homer's line to read, and drink the stream
Of pure Castalius genuine as it fell.
Nor of that fount alone, but of the fount
Of God, whence prophets their sublimer draught
Drew, till the plenteous bev'rage on their lips
Kindled divine enthusiasm, long'd thy soul
To taste with freedom. Hence thy brave attempt
To climb the mountain of Judæan writ,
Till nought of Hebrew rudiment thy search

Or memory escap'd. The key was thine
The ark of ancient promise to unlock,
And there the sacred leaf, to others dumb,
To scan and to interpret for thyself.
Yet slighted not thy truth-adoring soul
The volume of translation, long esteem'd
And executed well, nor needing yet,
Save here and there, a sense-restoring touch.
Thence drew thy judgment a continual feast,
The chain of prophecy expounding still,
Link after link, as story lent thee light,
And tracing with conviction the strong proof
Of Christian verity, still free to doubt
And nothing credulous, yet yielding still
To equal testimony brave assent.

Britanniæ decus.— Erasm.

Such were the treasures of thy active mind,
Ingenious Isabel; such the sweet arts
Which made thee to a brother dear indeed;
That not the pious child of More to him

Seem'd to possess, enchanting as she was,
Of mental beauty a more ample share.
Yet, lovely as thou wert, thy hour is past,
Thy beaming day is ended. Thou art gone,
Fleeting and transient as the cloud of morn,
And only this poor feeble outline lives,
This stol'n resemblance of thy trembling shade,
Cast by the midnight taper on the wall,
And sorrowfully pencil'd ere thy lips
Were cold in death. Yes, this poor shade alone
Is all that Heav'n has left me, and e'en this
Had not been mine to weep o'er and to love,
But that my daring pencil, spite of grief,
The feature copied when the soul was fled.
Dear welcome image, in my bosom dwell.
Forsake me never. Let me love thee still,
And often gaze upon thy lifeless cheek
Till blinded sorrow has no eye to see.
Let me the kiss of ecstasy imprint
On thy cold lips, oft as my sinking soul
With recollection bows of those dear hours
When thy belov'd original was mine,

To speak to and caress. Then go in peace,
And to the mansion of my heart return,
Whence none but death shall pluck thee. There repose
In mute security till life be spent.
Nought that reminds me of the maid I lov'd,
Nor aught that she applauded or esteem'd,
Shall from my sight depart. Therefore shall you,
Ye gentle doves, familiar to the hand,
Whom goodness long experienc'd has made tame
And nothing fearful of the touch of man,
Under my roof still live, and still enjoy
Provision plenteous. Isabel your lives
Redeem'd for pity, and the debt forgave:
Dying herself, your liberty she ask'd
Of thirsty violence; and ye shall fall,
When nature pleases, without shedding blood.
And thou too, tabby fav'rite, tho' thy eye
Stranger to tears no sorrow has express'd,
Still sporting on the hearth, tho' Isabel,
Thy fond protectress, is thy friend no more,
Thou, gentle kitten, shalt no morning-meal

With slender tone petitionary ask,
But I will yield it. Sit upon my knee,
And whisper pleasure, gratitude, and love,
For favour well bestow'd: thy silky neck
Still offer to the pressure of my hand,
And fear no evil: frisk upon the floor,
And cuff the cushion or suspended cork
Till riot make thee weary: slumber then
In the warm sunbeam on the window's ledge,
Till from thy fur the spark electric spring;
Or doze upon the elbow of my chair,
Or on my shoulder, or my knee, while I,
Lost in some dream of happiness deceas'd,
Steal from reflection pleasure, and beguile
A morning's march across the vale of life
By musing upon comforts now no more.
Or if sweet sleep not please thee, with the cord
And dangling tassel of the curtain play,
Or seize the grumbling hornet, or pert wasp,
Intruding ever, while I smile remote
At danger brav'd by vent'rous ignorance
And anger ill-escap'd. Only forbear

To tease the fly and inoffensive moth,
As Isabel forbade thee. Least of all
Fasten thy talons on the fenceless dove,
For that were murder not to be excus'd.

O changeable and fleeting world! The hour
E'en now, by time's repeating tongue announc'd,
Completes the circle of twelve speedy months
Since I my Isabel, with heart elate
And proud of its possession, at the ball
Beheld triumphant; since her rapid hand
The harp's sweet strings with emulation smote,
And easily victorious won the palm,
Yet blush'd to take it as not well deserv'd.
Where is she now? O soul-distracting thought!
Open thy caverns, earth, and bless my sight
With one short interview of her I mourn.
And thou, great God, forgive me, if I burst
The portal of the grave, ill-reconcil'd
To this thy hard decree. Ye silent dead,

I come to weep in your profound abodes,
To shed my tears within your mould'ring vaults,
'Mid eyeless sculls and dissipated bones.
I have a father somewhere. Here he lies.
Good man, I much respect thee, tho' my tears
Grac'd not thy fun'ral hour; a child too young
To know the value of the friend he lost.
Repose in peace. Thy children shall be mine.
I come not now to weep thee, but to seek
My long-lov'd Isabel, of all thy train
Save one the youngest, and of all thy train
Excepting none the loveliest. Here she sleeps,
Known to a father scarce twelve little moons,
To me a daughter for twelve precious years
Twice told. Thou tenant of the gloomy vault,
Whom these dark boards have prison'd from my sight,
Thou sleeping angel, in a treble chest
Thrice lock'd and bolted, let me the harsh screw,
Which thy sweet smile confines from its firm hold,
Wrench hatefully away: let me the seam,
Which o'er thy silent innermost recess
Strong cement closes, resolutely burst,

To view thy welcome countenance again.
Where are the lips, which mine so oft have press'd
In joyous welcome and in sad adieu?
Where are the eyes, which ne'er encounter'd these
But to relate, in eloquence how sweet,
In poetry how charming, the soft tale
Of daughterly affection? Where, oh where
Is the sweet voice that charm'd my soul to rest,
And made my cottage but a step from heav'n?
Where is the hand, so welcome to my touch,
So skill'd to gratify my thirsting ear
With harmony's full measure of delight?
Obstruction hence! impediment away!
Tho' universal hell my arm oppose
I will again behold her. Lend me, Death,
Lend me, grim monster, thy eternal bar,
Thy massy lever, that upheaves the lid
Of the mephitic marble-jaw'd abyss,
And I shall all prevail. Lo! it is done.

Ah me! is this my Isabel? Are these
The lips where health his odoriferous gales

And vernal roses shed? Are these the balls
Whose dew so often fell to sooth my pain
Or welcome my return, provoking still
The latent sympathy my looks denied,
Till my heart melted and my eye o'erflow'd?
Are these the fingers that so charm'd my ear?
Is this the hand that dwelt upon my arm
So many summers in the ev'ning walk?
The hand that serv'd me with good-will so free,
Guided the pen so fairly, and the heart
So sweetly portray'd on the vacant leaf?
How chang'd and how disguis'd! Dear lovely maid,
These wasted features, and this dread attire
Deprive thee of all semblance. But for these
External horrors which thy limbs enclose,
And this thy name engraven, I should deem
Delusion bound me in her subtle chain:
Whither, oh whither is thy beauty fled?

Great God of change, unchangeable thyself,
How transient are thy works! The very world
Is but a beauteous flow'r, whose sweet leaves

Still fade to flourish, still revive to die.
The tide once overwhelm'd it, and the frown
Of Him who made it has its tender branch
Oft wither'd. It shall perish once again
E'en to the root, and yet revive and live.
And so shalt thou, sweet Isabel, return.
Heav'n speed the day. Eternal Deity,
Be it thy pleasure to restore her soon.
Restore her now. Let my unhallow'd lips
The word convey. Archangel, blow the trump,
And send thy death-subduing summons forth,
That hell may hear and tremble: let old earth
Quake to her broad foundations at thy blast,
And gasp and heave with agonies intense
To give her kindred millions second birth:
Let heav'n be open'd, and the spotless Judge
Upon the clouds descend, the shout of Gods
Wafting his chariot to the world he won.
I will not fly, tho' conscious of offence,
And many a talent wasted and ill-us'd,
Till I have seen my Isabel awake
To bless me with a smile. Why stays the hour?

Why slumbers justice at her chariot side?
Have I no voice in heav'n? Then sorrow come,
And shed no drop of comfort in my cup;
Here let me die, the victim of regret,
And sleep till mercy wake me, till relief
Wipe all away my tears, and bid me live,
For misery is no more. Close at thy side,
Ingenious Isabel, let me be laid,
Never to leave thee: may the daring wretch
Who parts my bones from thine, feel never peace,
But sigh for agonies severe as these.
Sweet maid, I lov'd and rear'd thee as I could,
And ask forgiveness that I did no more.

Must I still live? Great God, at thy command
I close my lips. I will no more complain.
I will return to life, however sharp,
Nor quit it till thy summons call me hence.
Adieu, my love, sweet Isabel, adieu!
My lost companion, exquisitely dear,
I leave thy cold and solitary cell
To visit life again; I shall not long

Be absent from thy side; these ling'ring pains,
Effect of vigilance and much concern,
And fretful melancholy, pining still
For thee my treasure lost, will yet prevail,
And weigh me down to death: departed maid,
Soon to thy side I come: and, bounteous God,
Grant me this blessing, never to be mov'd
From this my spot of coveted repose
Till the loud trump of resurrection blow.
Then (hear me Heav'n!) let these lamenting eyes,
Which saw my lovely Isabel depart,
First wake to endless being, and with tears
Of joy profuse her renovation mark.
Let me behold her, as the gentle warmth
Of life rekindles, as her glowing cheek
The hue of health recovers, as her pulse
Begins again to throb, her lip to breathe;
Then let me wake her with an ardent kiss,
And with a flood of transport bless the day
Which makes her mine for ever. Day remote,
And long to be expected: for not yet
Shall pass this world away; nor yet shall come

The fun'ral of the globe, tho' earth be old,
And oft betray her symptom of decline.
No! I have long to tarry ere the morn
Of restoration dawn, and many a slow
And weary winter must I urge away:
Distress and sickness, sorrow, care, and pain,
Must I endure alone; shed many tears,
Lament for comforts gone, and thro' the dark
And dismal cave of dissolution march,
Ere I can meet my Isabel again.
And even then my pittance of desert
Shall ill entitle me her bliss to share,
Tho' heav'n be bountiful, and much forgive;
Tho' it attribute merits not our own
To us who need. Then what is life to me?
The cage of discontent, dark prison-house
Of sorrow and complaint, which I nor dare
To quit, nor hope to dwell in. Happier days
Once found me loit'ring, but such days are fled.

Yes, I was happier once, and fondly sung
Of comforts not dissembled, of my cot,

And sweet amusements which attract no more.
Methought my song should ever be content,
Plac'd by my God where I was richly bless'd,
In such a nook of life, that I nor wish'd
Nor fancied aught that could have pleas'd me more.
So sings the summer linnet on the bough,
And, pleas'd with the warm sun-beam, half asleep,
The feeble sonnet of supine content
To his Creator warbles; warbles sweet,
And not contemn'd, till some unfeeling boy
His piece unheeded levels, and with show'r
Of leaden mischief his ill-utter'd song
Suddenly closes: pines the songster then,
Wounded and scar'd, flutters from bough to bough,
Complains and dies; or lingers life away
In silent anguish, and is heard no more.

My God, have I arraign'd thee? Let thy bow
Ten thousand arrows in this bosom fix,
Yet will I own thee just. Take all away;

Leave me no friend, but let me weep alone
At mute affliction's solitary board.
Summon Cecilia to an early grave,
And let her tribe of cheerful graces fade,
Fast as the flow'r she gathers: let the worm
Prey on the roses of Eliza's cheek:
Yet will I bless thee. For to this harsh world
I came a beggar, but sufficient bread
Have never needed; thy indulgent hand
Fed and sustain'd me, and sustains me still;
Nor feel I hardship which thy partial rod
To me alone dispenses: bitter loss,
Sorrow and misery o'erflow the cup
Of many a soul more innocent than mine.

Behold yon village church, whose humble tow'r
Stands in a vale between two lofty hills
Upon the confines of the winter's flood;
There Caroletta sleeps. Poor hapless girl!
She saw a daring brother bound in chains,
And visited his dungeon—saw the sword
Of angry justice waving o'er his head—

Blush'd for his shame—absconded from the world—
Pin'd into sickness— and, the culprit dead,
Close at his heels went down into the grave.
So beauty, virtue, piety, and youth
Fell in an instant, and the scythe of time
Cut from the root, with one determin'd blow,
The noisome thistle and the harmless rose.
A rose too delicate and winning fair
For the deserted village where it grew,
And happily remov'd to bloom in heav'n.

Conduct thine eye along that chain of hills,
Observe a steeple at the mountain's foot,
Girded by woodland; there Aurelia liv'd,
And to her happy spouse, the Vicar, bore
Six smiling infants. To maturer years
Each rose in turn, but, ere the hour was past
Which childhood limits, one grew sick and died:
Another linger'd, and another fell:
A third departed; and thus clos'd the grave
On three sweet maidens in the bloom of life:
A duteous son then fell, by frenzy seiz'd,

Ere education her expensive work
Had well accomplish'd, and the letter'd youth
Dismiss'd a graduate: yet another liv'd,
But liv'd remote upon the Indian shore,
Nor there liv'd long, but died: the Vicar then
To heav'n was summon'd, and his weeping spouse,
With only one poor sickly daughter left,
Fled from the vale, and was not heard of more.

Then let not me complain, but o'er thy grave,
Departed Isabel, my tablet place,
And to my hearth return; content that heav'n,
Which all might challenge, has yet spar'd me much.
“Adieu, sweet maid, whom death untimely smote,
“As eager winter nips the bud of spring,
“For blossoming too early. Here secure,
“While judgment tarries, in the dust repose,
“And while, less happy thro' the vale of life,
“We toil in tears without thee. Yet not long
“Shall death divide us: swift as the dove's wing
“Shall pass the moments of this changeful stage,
“And soon our bones shall meet: here will we sleep,

“Here wake together, and from hence ascend
“(If haply innocence like thine be ours)
“To love which no affliction shall disturb.”

Ye kind and cheerful partners of my roof,
Receive me once again, and once again,
Welcome associates of my humble board,
Smile at my entrance, and assuage my pain
With pure esteem's reiterated kiss.
Cecilia, let thy finger fill my ear
With the sweet concord of subduing sounds,
Prelude to serious song. Let thy free voice,
Eliza, sooth me with some plaintive air,
Till peace and comfort fill my breast again.
Steal me away from grief, and grief from me.
Let not your hearts be sad, tho' on my cheek
Dull melancholy dwell, and from my brow
Depart reluctant as the low'ring gloom
Of mid-November: yet this cloud shall pass,
And float away with sensible retreat
In the returning sunshine of content.
This frown of winter shall again be chas'd

By the sweet smile of spring: summer shall come,
And joy shall blossom from ten thousand buds,
Gay as the nectarine, tho' now its branch
Seem to be blasted by a with'ring frost,
Never to flourish more. Come then, my loves,
Still let improvement be our daily care;
And let us rise to this our welcome task
Soon as the lark of May, which soars aloft
In the first glimpse of morning, and performs
A darkling anthem at the gates of heav'n:
Let us pursue it, earnest as the bee,
Searching the raspberry's unfolded bloom,
Which never leaves it till the sun is couch'd,
The longest summer's day; yea, travels still,
And with the nightingale her strain prolongs
E'en in the moon-beam, when the vale is hush'd,
And ev'ry idler bird gone home to bed.
This be our only care, till waning life
Has number'd all its sands: and then one grave
Receive us all, and be one only vault
The darksome cell of our imprison'd bones.
Thither let nature lead us one by one,

Nothing despairing, tho' with plenteous tears
Haply bewailing intermitted love,
As now we weep o'er Isabel deceas'd.
No proud inscription memorize the spot,
To which our ashes are gone down in hope:
But let one unadorn'd and modest stone,
Plain and sincere, say only, “Here he lies,
“And here lie those he lov'd, and those he sung.”
Under the altar of yon village church,
Which stands upon a hillock in the vale,
And looks toward the foamy swelling deep,
Close by the side of Isabel so dear,
Will we repose together; there to rest,
Till at the dawn of everlasting doom
The summoning Archangel lift his trump,
And blow the dead to life. Then shall we wake
To sweet renewal of unceasing love,
To surer peace, and union without end.

Thou bounteous Author of all human bliss,
Give me whatever lot thy wisdom deems

Meet and convenient—pleasure, if thou wilt—
If not, then pain—and be it sharp as this,
My heart, tho' wounded, shall adore thee still.

THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE.

TO THE REV. JOHN COURTAIL, A.M. ARCHDEACON OF LEWES, THE FOLLOWING POEM, DESCRIPTIVE OF THOSE RURAL SATISFACTIONS AND AMUSEMENTS, TO WHICH, IN THE SPIRIT OF TRUE TASTE, HE HAS, FOR MANY YEARS, GIVEN THEIR DUE PREFERENCE, IS, WITH RESPECT AND VENERATION, AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

BOOK 1.

ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST BOOK.

The subject proposed, viz, the pleasures of the Village—The Village itself described—The pleasure of rural spectacles— The peasant's funeral—Description of the Author's house— of the hills near it—and of one lofty eminence in particular —the prospect from it—The pleasures of early Summer first described—the sight of haymaking—of the bull—of the close of evening—of the whirlwind—of the thunder-storm—of the country after it—The pleasure of looking over corn-fields in July—of bathing in the sea—of beholding the sea in a storm —during a calm, &c.

Place of my birth, O fondly let me sing
Thy pleasures multifarious, pass the sun
Through what fair sign it will. Around a pool
In a deep vale assemble thy warm huts,
All overhung by intermingling elms,
Save where the steep-ascending street (if street
May yon loose chain of tenements be deem'd)
Girds the contiguous hill, roof above roof,
And terminates above in farmer's close,
Or sawyer's pit with frequent boards beset.
Hard by, o'ertopping fair the nether elms,
But little shewing of the verdant hill

That underprops his columns, stands the Church.
A cheerful look athwart the vale he casts,
Smiles at the distant ocean half-eclips'd
Behind yon sudden intervening down,
And blesses the proud eminence, whose steep,
For ever flock-fed, shelters his lov'd elms
Scatter'd wherever in the vale below.
Fast by him stands, and not, like modern dome,
To the poor mansion of the Lord of Hosts
Abhors propinquity, the rural seat
Of one whom Britain hail'd erewhile her chief
Of princely ministers, Newcastle's Duke.
Pertains to Pelham still the rural spot,
Its pious site to his religious mind
Convenient, proper. Musing let me pass
Thy silent door and unfrequented walks,
Mansion deserted, and with pond'ring heart
Think, what is greatness in this world below!
Where is thy rich possessor, whose warm heart
Peopled the vale with his unnumber'd guests;
Who spread profusion round the hall within,
And to the border of the lawn without?

All, all is hush'd. The airy vision's fled.
The mighty master and his host of friends
Are well nigh melted all into the grave.
A shadow are they, an expiring sound,
Reverberated oft from hill to hill,
Till now but seldom and but faintly heard.
Soon must the whole depart, and other names
Possess the echo, till their hour is spent,
And future tongues 'gin prate of future days.
So press we all into the yawning gulf
Of vast eternity. These leaning stones,
Which gird with cincture ruinous the church,
What preach they but of youth and age deceas'd,
And sexes mingled in the populous soil,
Till it o'erlooks with swoln and ridgy brow
The smoother croft below? A little hour,
A moment, and the fretful miner Death
Shall delve again with implement severe
Into the bowels of this restless plot,
And bid a generation couch beneath.

Say, ancient edifice, thyself with years
Grown grey, how long upon the hill has stood

Thy weather-braving tower, and silent mark'd
The human leaf inconstant bud and fall?
The generations of deciduous man—
How often hast thou seen them pass away?
How often has thy still surrounding sward
Yawn'd for the fathers of the peopled vale,
And clos'd upon them all? Thy during fane,
How often has it shed the dew of grace
On the mute infant, and receiv'd him soon
A coffin'd elder silver-lock'd with age?
O tell me, rev'rend structure, what events
Of awful import on the tide of time
Have floated by thee, as the bubble vain?
What armies on that distant hill engag'd,
To leave those scars of war upon its brow?
What blood was shed, and why? and where sleep now
The wrathful combatants of either host?
Saw'st thou the hill its hungry entrails ope
To swallow the pale dead, which reason deems
Beneath the still sward slumber of yon mounts?
Princes and peoples, (would'st thou make report)
Armies and fleets hast thou seen pass away,

Transient as vapour; and in thy esteem
All things are yesterday and recent change.
Speak, thou sage preacher, and, to make me wise,
Tell but that ancient secret, where sleeps now
He who thy aisles design'd, or they who built?
“Deep, deep in earth, nor shall thy life suffice
“The mingled generations to remove,
“Whose bones and ashes have envelop'd their's.
“These my profound and monitory bell
“All to their still graves summon'd, as it calls
“Now to his narrow everlasting couch
“Yon villager departed. Ask no more.
“Ere long I toll for thee. Away, prepare.”

Lo the procession! Let me pause intent,
And first drink pleasure at the peasant's grave.
Humane and christian is the muse, and fond
Of ev'ry object, cheerful or sedate,
Which rural scenes afford. She nor contemns
The nuptial holiday, nor views untouch'd
The sad solemnity of rustic woe,
What time the white-frock'd mourner slowly moves,
And brings with mute reluctance to the grave

The dear remains of some departed friend.
The decent sheet that overspreads the bier!
How well becomes it sorrow neat as their's,
Pure, and unsullied by the shameless tear
Of wrung hypocrisy! Steel were the heart
That could this passing spectacle survey,
Nor feel the touch of sympathy within.
Me it well pleases to the holy sward
To follow pitying, nor disowns my muse
The feminine sensations of a heart
That often vibrates at another's woe.
The tear that trickles down the manly cheek,
The burst of grief that braves control, the sigh
Which baffles interception, and escapes
Soon as the solemn pause bids lift the pall,
And ease the dead into his kindred earth,
Send many a tingling arrow through this breast,
Though the reluctant eye no grief betray,
And tearless silence in her deepest gloom
The decent pleasurable secret hide.
But often as my sated soul surveys
The sable funeral of city pomp,

Methinks life human is a play indeed,
And the poor player man, exhausted, spent,
Has made his exit, and now comes the farce.
'Tis pantomimic shew—the nodding plume,
The proud escutcheon'd hearse, and long parade
Of dry-eyed mourners clad in inky cloaks,
The streaming crape, and dismal aisle behung
With sable manufacture ill-applied.
To see such idle waste, and childish shew,
I smile, and nothing grieve. Not so, when death
Calls for the hind, and undissembled grief
Of father, widow, offspring, to the grave
His decent corpse attends. Then through my soul
Exquisite sympathy's vibration thrills;
It sorrows freely, breathes the grateful sigh,
Nor scorns to utter from a heart subdued
The mourner's luxury, the deep “alas!”

Enough of painful pleasure. Now alive,
Thee let me sing, still mansion of my birth.
The swelling instep of the mountain's foot
Above the vale just lifts thee. Thy trim gate,
Thy candid aspect and pale-chimney'd roof

Some eminence bespeak, and mark thee chief
Of the lone hamlet that behind thee squats.
Thou seem'st a bride, and this thy nuptial day,
And these thy mute attendants less attir'd.
Graceful to them thy fair ingenuous face
And bolder footstep, but not less to thee
Their modest air becoming. Ev'ry roof,
Or farm or cottage, ev'ry tree and shrub,
Pasture and garden-plot, which tread thy heel
Descending from the hill, thy charms improve.
I see where Flora her full lap of sweets
Has strew'd before thee, prodigally kind.
I mark the wreath laburnum without hand
Weaves for thy brow, the lilac tuft sublime
That shades thy temples, and the nodding flowers
Of rose and woodbine which his leaf o'ertop,
To screen thine eyelids from the western beam.
Beauty conceal'd is beauty thrice improv'd;
And plainness self, if plainness be thy lot,
Is not to be reprov'd, when nature thus
Adorns deformity with flowery charm.

Welcome, dear mansion of repose and ease,

Still nurse of letters. To the studious mind
The vale of solitude is world enough;
A world of many pleasures, many friends,
Of bustle, and resort without fatigue.
E'en the slow-marching sabbath, by the gay
Devoted ill to frivolous excess,
Or dedicated fondly by the grave
To endless exercise of pious toil,
Has here no hurried and no loit'ring foot.
Abridg'd of levity, and indispos'd
To make salvation slavery, and yawn
Till latest midnight o'er the long discourse,
It interdicts not recreation sweet;
But, holy worship and the preacher's saw
Duly attended, gives to sacred song,
To conversation, anthem, slight research,
Or loud perusal of ill-printed news,
The sacred residue of ambling day.

Alone, of men, dwells here the thoughtful bard.
Here, on the mountain station'd, to the deep,
That proudly thund'ring on his one hand foams,
The lyre's indignant chorus sweeps he now;

Now to the peaceful variegated weald,
That underlies his other, tinkles soft
Descriptive admiration of her charms.
He sings her every steeple, farm, and field,
Till, like the prospect, his expiring song,
Mellow'd and soften'd, steals away from sense,
And ill-perceiv'd runs melting into air.

How awful this proud height, this brow of brows,
Which every steep surmounts, and awes sublime
The subject downs below! Nature wears here
Her boldest countenance. The tumid earth
Seems as of yore it had the phrenzy fit
Of ocean caught, and its uplifted sward
Perform'd a billowy dance, to whose vast wave
The proudest surges of the bellowing deep
Are little, as to his profounder swell
The shallow rippling of the wrinkled pool.
Enormous family, gigantic host,
Nation of mountains, sublime people, say,
At what great festival did your high brows
And ample foreheads dignify the dance?
When welcom'd ye rebounding the great God

In mercy present? Or, if wrath came down,
When boil'd so furiously your molten sward,
Fus'd at the touch of his indignant foot?
When did the God, departing, with a frown
Congeal and frost-fix your prodigious limbs,
Leaving remembrance, which no time shall 'rase,
Of ire omnipotent here dealt around?
Or if at first with wonder-working hand
He form'd you thus, say where is the vast scoop,
By which these ample vales and combs profound
Were hollow'd? Where is the stupendous axe
Which cleft the shoulders of yon bulky cliffs?
Who the vast host of precipices link'd,
To fetter frantic ocean to his seat?
Where is the mighty delving tool that pil'd
High as the clouds this lofty mount supreme,
And yon his twin companion, way between
To the neat stream permitting, as she trips
To wed her sober spouse the tranquil Ouse?
Where is the car that bore the hills away
To make yon ample basin, bowl immense,
Vast amphitheatre of sky-crown'd downs,

Where oft the hurried waters lose their way,
And spreading wide become an inland sea
Land-lock'd by mountains? Where is the strong bar
Which loosen'd seaward the contiguous hills,
Hove them aside, and gave to Ouse between
Sufficient space for his meand'ring stream
To wind and wander, and to many a farm,
Village, and steeple, visitation pay,
Or e'er he pours into the distant deep,
Through the wide fauces of yon hiant cliffs,
Th' obsequious lake that urges him along?

Here let me stand, and wonder at my God,
Nor look with insolent disdain on man;
Since, feeble as his efforts are, his works
Puny and ill-distinguish'd, yet e'en they
Add grace and beauty to the noblest scene.
What were the deep, if his cerulean swathe
Bound only, as a girdle, unadorn'd,
The hills that baffle his circumfluent wave?
Owes he no beauty to the passing fleet
With swelling canvass o'er his steril void
Tilting triumphant, intercepted oft

By the white promontory's brow sublime,
And oft apparent where the cultur'd vale
'Tween cliff and cliff with ample op'ning yawns?
Owes he no majesty, when ev'ning sooths
The tranquil waters, and dun quiet reigns,
To the stout convoy's peremptory flash,
Distinct precursor of a voice profound
Enforcing mandate not pronounc'd in vain,
But soon assembling her disparted fleet;
As (if to great things small may be compar'd)
Troops to the partridge at her ev'ning call
Her scatter'd brood Septembrian, thunder-scar'd?
Owes he no grandeur to the warrior bark,
With sail impetuous as the falcon's wing
Chasing her foe, and blazing from her side
The smoky thunder-peal, awhile sustain'd,
Awhile replied to, till her ensign couch'd
Implies submission and a foe subdu'd?
Yes, these have dignity, and much delight,
And cheat of length and weariness the way,
As from this eminence my foot descends
Homeward to roam o'er intervenient hills.

Oft on the sunny upland let me pause,
That overlooks the hamlet, and, with tube
Improving vision to the brow applied,
Take my last farewel of the fleet remote,
Ere I descend into the vale beneath.
With sight still aided let me home survey,
Well pleas'd if Madam at her door appear
Watching her son's return with double eyes,
Twain supplemental, striding o'er the nose,
And with affectionate extended arm
Clasping the temple and superior ear.
Pleas'd also, if but puss upon the sill
Be seen adorning, with assiduous tongue
Cleansing her taper shank, her dappled coat
And furry bosom, or with gentle paw
Laving her countenance and hindmost ear.
Thus, thou dear village, sometimes let me stand,
The ding-dong peal of thy twain bells remote
To hear, and see thy Sunday cottager
In his white frock, thy scarlet-mantled dame,
Thy lusty farmer in his brown surtout,
And all thy mingled people, well-attir'd,

Church-ward repairing from their scatter'd homes.
Prudent assemblers, warmly shall the muse
Your piety applaud, and would to God
None ever linger'd in the haunts obscene
Of lewd ebriety, for ever lost
To the still voice of truth; and would to God
Of you that hear the word none heard in vain,
But all obedient at the holy board
Assembled duly at their pastor's call.
Would too, that none, preferring draff to grain,
On the fond cobler's conventicle drawl
With admiration fed, and the full cup
Of barbarous intoxication swill'd.

My native vale, in loveliness array'd,
Now let me paint thee, while the mower's scythe
Thine herbage levels, harvest first conferr'd
And least solicited, spontaneous gift,
Abundance for the beast that toils for man.
Thick swarms the field with tedders, tossing high
And spreading thin upon the sunny sward
The lock dishevell'd. Frequent is the maid
That trails the rake, and he that builds the cock,

Or, plunging deep his fork in every hill,
Bears it aloft uplifted to the load.
The team alternate to the peopled rick
Moves in procession, soon reliev'd, and soon
Alert returning to be fraught anew.

Now is it sometimes pleasure to steal forth
At sultry midnoon, when the busy fly
Swarms multitudinous, and the vex'd herd
Of milch-kine slumber in yon elm-grove shade,
Or unrecumbent exercise the cud
With milky mouths. 'Tis pleasure to approach,
And, by the strong fence shielded, view secure
Thy terrors, Nature, in the savage bull.
Soon as he marks me, be the tyrant fierce—
To earth descend his head—hard breathe his lungs
Upon the dusty sod—a sulky leer
Give double horror to the frowning curls.
Which wrap his forehead—and ere long be heard
From the deep cavern of his lordly throat
The growl insufferable. Not more dread
And not more sullen the profoundest peal
Of the far-distant storm, which o'er the deep,

Cloth'd in the pall of midnight premature,
At ev'ning hangs, and jars the solid earth
With its remote explosion. Tramples then
The surly brute, impatient of disdain,
And spurns the soil with irritated hoof,
Himself inhaler of the dusty cloud,
Himself insulted by the pebbly shower
Which his vain fury raises. Nothing fear'd,
Let him incens'd from agitated lungs
Blow his shrill trump acute, till echo ring,
And with a leer of malice steal away,
Assault and vengeance swearing ere be long.

When the bright orb of ruddy eve is sunk,
And the slow day-beam takes its last farewel,
Retiring leisurely, how sweet to mark
The watery scintillation of the star
That first dares penetrate its flimsy skirt,
And, as the subtil medium steals away
Refin'd to nothing, bright and brighter glows!
How cheerful to behold the host of night,
Encourag'd by example, fast revive,
And splendid constellations long extinct

In quick succession kindle! Summer's night
Yields many a pleasure to the poet's eye.
He loves to ramble when the vale is hush'd,
What time the preying owl with sleepy wing
Swims o'er the corn-field studious, unannoy'd
By the fleet swallow to his chimney slunk,
Or marten to his eave; what time the bat
Hurries precipitous on leathern wing,
Brisk evolution in the dusky air
With sudden wheel performing. With delight
He sees the recent moon with horn acute
Fast by the star of ev'ning glow, to grace
The crimson exit of departing day;
And ever with affection hails her beam,
Whether her kindled cheek appear on high,
As tranquil twilight dwindles, half illum'd,
And, westward tending, down the steep of heaven
The chariot of retreating day pursue,
Or full-fac'd meet him on yon eastern hill,
Veil'd if the sun be present, or with meek
Uncurtain'd aspect if his orb be sunk.
Or whether, with reverted horn, her bow

Look eastward as the break of morning dawns,
And hide its slender elegance, abash'd
At the bright egress of effulgent day.
Yes, the fond poet can with joy behold
Eve's dappled vesture in the rosy beam
Twice-dyed, and with the ruddier hues of light
In fold and border saturated well;
A rich illuminated crimson stole
With sanguine furbelow of molten gold.
With equal transport views his cheerful eye
The cloud of morning shot with purple streaks;
Nor void of ecstasy observes on high
The fleece of silver, in which decent night
Scarce veils her smiling orb, betraying oft
Through its dishevell'd border transient glimpse
Of the pure studded azure, or sweet day
Of moonbeam unrestrain'd. Some taste of bliss
May haply be deriv'd from lurid night,
In dismal weeds of saddest sorrow dress'd,
And shedding fast from her maternal eye
Afflicted widowhood's celestial tear,
If unexpected the rent cloud display

The pure cerulean cupola of heaven,
With dewy gems serene of ev'ry size
And ev'ry lustre sow'd, not faint, nor few,
As when the horned moon shines clear, but bright
And numberless as the well-winnow'd grain
The ploughman scatters, or the silky fall
Of the soft vernal show'r that bids it spring,
Or dew-drops cherishing autumnal meads.

Sometimes the whirlwind's eddy let me see
The highway march, and with cylindric tube
The worried dust inhaling lift it high,
A turbid vortex, swelling as it mounts,
And soon dispers'd in the wide field of heaven.

Anon the candent thunderbolt delights,
That tears the bosom of the sultry cloud,
And from its watery lap prone deluge sheds.
Let the tempestuous Angel quit his hold
Upon the swealing fork, and pour sublime
His thund'ring volley through the deep of heaven.
With vivid repetition gleam the flash,
And ever, as it kindles, sally forth,
Abrupt and ruinous, the rolling peal,

As if, by lightning lash'd, at ev'ry blaze
Shot forth a chariot from the throne of heaven,
And headlong bounded o'er the cloudy waste.

The storm subsided, and fair day return'd,
Up to yon summit, that with haughty grace
Its wither'd turban wears of perish'd heath,
On its rude forehead, filleted around,
Bearing distinct the trench of ancient war,
With slow and painful footsteps let me climb.
At length ascended, on the central mount,
Erewhile perhaps the military throne
Of some proud monarch, and the spot rever'd
Whence the pavilion'd conqueror survey'd
His tented host around him, lost awhile
And musing let me stand, to think, where now
The leader and his army? prey alike
To the none-sparing appetite of time.
Then let me feed with never-sated eye
Upon the downy prospect wide outspread.
It shall not grieve me if the gust be free,
And to withstand its overbearing gale
I lean upon the tide of air unseen.

For pleasant then across the vale below
Fleet the thin shadows of the sever'd cloud,
Unwearied race performing. The blue deep
Wears wrinkled laughter, and exulting bounds
The shore along, with sycophantic air
Welcoming fashion to her lov'd retreat
Yon distant steeple, where she sits and smiles,
And dips her foot into the wholesome wave.

Thus on the July down in summer's noon
Let me lounge often, when the whiffling breeze,
The sear hill sweeping, sings among the bents
That brush my footsteps, and make brighter still
The polish'd sandal and its slippery sole.
For then how beauteous lies the vale below,
Chequer'd with various harvest, light and shade,
As o'er it sails th' unnumber'd cloud of heaven!
How whispers, as it stoops, the blooming ear
Of the tall wheat-field slenderly erect,
And bows obsequious to the passing gale!
It seems a troubled sea, that swells, and rolls,
And pours its green wave merrily along,
Or up the steep, or down the smiling slope,

Or o'er the plain, or through the valley's lap.

If noon be fervid, and no zephyr breathe,
What time the new-shorn flock stands here and there
With huddled head, impatient of the fly—
What time the snuffling spaniel, as he runs,
Pants freely, and laps often at the brook,
To slake the fervour of his feverous tongue—
What time the cow stands knee-deep in the pool,
Lashing her sides for anguish, scaring oft,
With sudden head revers'd, the insect swarm
That basks and preys upon her sunny hide—
Or when she flies with tufted tail erect
The breeze-fly's keen invasion, to the shade
Scampering madly—let me wind my way
Tow'rd the still lip of ocean. Seated there,
Soon let me cast habiliment aside,
And to the cool wave give me. Transport sweet!
Pleasure thrice-delicate! Oh, let me plunge
Deep in the lucid element my head,
And, rising, sportful on its surface play.
Oh joy, to quit the fervid gleam of earth,
Leave a faint atmosphere, and soon recruit

Exhausted energy, suspended thus
Upon the bosom of a cooler world!
Oh recreation exquisite, to feel
The wholesome waters trickle from the head,
Oft as its saturated locks emerge!
To feel them lick the hand, and lave the foot!
And when the playful and luxurious limb
Is satiated with pastime, and the man
Rises refresh'd from the voluptuous flood,
How rich the pleasure to let Zephyr chill
And steal the dew-drops from his panting sides!
Let e'en the saucy and loud Auster blow,
Be but his sea not fierce, nor, save at shore,
The frothy breaker of displeasure shew,
Yet will I court the turbulent embrace
Of thee, thou roaring deep: yes, and will share
The bather's richest pleasure, when the foot
Of fear might hesitate, nor dare invade
The thund'ring downfal of the billowy surge.
How joys the bold intruder, then, at large
To flounder porpoise-like, wave after wave
Mounting triumphant, hoisted by the swell—

How climbs with ease, descends, and climbs again
Th' uplifted summit, high as it may seem,
Of the sublimest wave! What if lost earth
Each moment disappear, as the sunk head
Swims through the yawning hollow of the flood;
As often shall it greet the watchful eye,
Seen from the wave-top eminent. And when
Landward with weary stroke the patient arm
Oars him again in safety, how alert
Shall the strand meet him, and his streaming limbs
Rescue from boist'rous ocean's foamy jaws;
Defiance bidding to his savage howl,
His ivory tooth unsheath'd, his sullen bark,
And fiery look delirious, symptoms all
Of madness imminent! Lo! as we speak,
The wolfish monster kindles into rage!
Enormous mastiff, how he gnaws his chain,
And struggles to be free, fast bound by fate,
And never more to be let loose on man!
Aloud he bellows, with indignant paw
Dances uprear'd, and menaces the foot
Of earth with trembling diffidence protruded.

Lo! the saliva of his deafening tongue
Her pebbled instep stains! his rugged coat
Is whiten'd o'er with foam, wasted amiss
In the vain effort of his hoarse assault!
Chain'd tyrant, spare thy fury, or unfear'd
Growl the long night away. To-morrow's sun
Shall find thee gentler, and a second dawn
Shall quell thy raving fit, and make thee calm,
Tame, and obsequious as the fondest cur
That cringing fawns and licks the steps of man.

Not such thy frenzy, when the northern gale,
Borne softly seaward, the tyrannic surge
Here first assuaging, sooths into a smile
Thy frantic countenance, thy surly frown
Appeases, thy white tooth and snarling jaw
Foamy with vengeance closes, and thy tongue
Bids spaniel-like with parasitic kiss
Lave inoffensive the long peaceful shore.
How placid then beneath the midday sun
Shines thy pure azure level undisturb'd!
How smooth and oily seems the path of Ouse,
As unmolested round the western cliff

He winds his way, nor mingles with the wave!
How steady sails the bark, her every sheet
Fill'd with the breeze! how fearless on the brink
Of the vast watery field, erewhile so rude,
Lets drop her anchor, furls her pliant sail,
And waits the hour when thy more lifted plain,
And Ouse retiring o'er the perilous bar,
Shall bear her smoothly up the brimful port!

Nor such thy frenzy, when the breeze at east
Round yon tall promontories, you vast chain
Of cliffs sublime that gird Britannia's breast,
Than which her stedfast rock-encircled waist
Owns none more lofty, to the Thames-bound fleet
Blows adverse. Safe beneath the muzzled mouths
Of yon twin parapets, whose weighty tubes
Menace the deep below, they moor secure,
And ride expectant of the prosp'rous gale.
Oft from yon hill superior let me see
The peaceful anchorage of this wide bay
Thus by the wind-bound mariner posses'd;
And chiefly, when the natal hour of George
Revolves well welcome in the wheel of time.

What pleasure then to number one by one,
Floating in honour of the regal day,
Their lifted ensigns! to behold more near
On either parapet its furnish'd staff
Superbly waving; on the western fort,
That from the cliffy precipice down looks,
And war-locks imminent the mouth of Ouse,
His standard flaming; while the port beneath
On every stern a silken meteor shews!
How marks exulting then th' impatient eye
Where blazes first the sulphur-breathing tube
Redundant cloud forth sending, unctuous smoke,
Ere long succeeded by explosion vast:
Earth-shaking gratitude, which bark to bark
Kindles in turn, till every deck is lost
In brief eclipse of its own thund'ring cloud!

BOOK II.

ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND BOOK.

The pleasures of the favourite village during Autumn—the sight of harvest and its toils—of the shepherd digging bird-coops —of gleaners—of harvest still protracted in the flat country—of the midnight storm in harvest-time—of the harvest-moon rising. The pleasure of walking home late at night at this season—of spending the evening at home—of walking out early in the morning of September—of listening to the drone—of pitying the brood—of hearing the equinoctial gale by night—of climbing the cliff the following morning —of viewing the sea troubled as well as calm. Contemplations on the fall of the leaf.

Let Summer 'gin decline, yet pleasure still
Shall with the poet dwell. Be the field brown:
No longer now stand smilingly erect
The bearded ear, or spike of nobler grain,
But, sear alike, droop both, and hang the head,
And stoop the shoulder, to their annual toil
The keen hook calling and voracious scythe.
How groans the soil with its incumbent load!
Lo! in my native vale the reaper's hand
Gathers the fruitful ear and binds the sheaf,
Betimes industrious, nor its endless task
Quits till the moon above the shadowy down

Lifts her bright orb to light him to repose.
Let morning dawn, and ev'ry village-team
Comes forth to bear, or to the rick, or grange,
The shocks of plenty in arrangement meet
Along the bristly stubble-field dispos'd.
All hands are busy, and one common spring
Of lively int'rest actuates the scene.
Rous'd by example, industry at home
The secret impulse of endeavour feels,
And toils alert. The very shepherd churl,
Accustom'd in the rear of his slow flock
To creep inert, or lean upon his crook
In vacant contemplation, or recline
And with his curs upon the mountain bask,
Puts on agility, digs his long line
Of turf-turn'd coops along the sunny brow,
Trims the slight springe of hair, and neatly hides
Beneath the hollow'd sward his double noose.
So when the sever'd cloud of airy day
Flits through the blue expanse, and the bright orb
Wraps often in the veil of brief eclipse,
The tim'rous wheatear, fearful of the shade,

Trips to the hostile shelter of the clod,
And where she sought protection finds a snare.
Poor heedless simpleton, to shun a foe
Void of annoyance, and destruction seek
Where danger least was fear'd. Seiz'd by the springe,
She flutters for lost liberty in vain,
A costly morsel, destin'd for the board
Of well-fed luxury, if no kind friend,
No gentle passenger, the noose dissolve,
And give her to the free-born wing again.
Incautious bird, such as thy lot is now,
Such once was mine. By his arch foe beguil'd,
Man slipt into the toil, and pitiless death
Had in its strong chain bound him. Yet found he
A kind Deliverer, who burst his bonds,
And the vast price of restoration paid.
Divine Preserver, thine immense desert
Shall my fond hand at distance imitate,
And to the feath'ry captive give release,
The pence of ransom placing in its stead.
Go, fool, be cheated of thy wing no more.
Freedom is thine, and pleasure lives with me.

Yet, though it cheat the wheatear of its life,
Condemn not thou, my muse, the sullen cloud
Which often quenches in its gloomy folds
The sultry beam of day, assuaging shade,
To him that reaps, and him that wields the scythe,
Or plies the fork, or builds the load, or trails
The ling'ring rake embarrass'd, at high noon
Affording freely. Opportune the shield
His canopy bestows; and shelter'd thus
Toil becomes nimble, industry alert,
And the wide field re-echoes with the sound
Of merriment indulg'd, and not repress'd
By Autumn's suffocating heat intense.
The treader of the mow enjoys within
The mitigated air, nor finds the grange
A melting oven, by the sultry load
Fresh from the field with double heat supplied,
Till Hell seem present, wanting but its flames,
And thirst insatiable his dusty lip
And strangled fauces without mercy parch.

Now let the reaper, tawny with his toil,
Cut with unwearied hook and eager grasp

The last unlevell'd acre, and enjoy
To see the village street pour forth its dames
And laughing little ones, to glean at large
Where'er the huddled sheaf once stood erect.
How glows the heart to dwell upon the scene,
When harvest thus enlivens every field
That girds the hamlet round, when sport and toil
Seem hand in hand, and pleasure lives with all!

Thy early grain, my native valley, hous'd,
Still with protracted pleasure the fond bard
Surveys the weald, on whose more chilly lap
Brown harvest loiters. With recruited joy
Marks he the fervent bustle of the field,
And greets anew the sickle, and the swain,
Who, to his fair shirt peel'd, from dusky dawn
To latest twilight gathers the full ear,
And reaping fills, or girding plants erect
The multitudinous sheaf. How full of cheer,
Joyous, devout, and grateful is the soul,
To see again its unexhausted God
Thus pile the table of a world with bread!
For what's the globe on which we all subsist?

The table of immortal bounty 'tis,
A feast perpetual, where unnumber'd sons
Sit down to banquet as their sires withdraw,
And in succession generations feed,
Contented rise, give thanks, and pass away.

Awful the pleasure now, if midnight storm
Illuminate with quick repeated flash
Valley and hill, to catch a sudden glimpse
Of tree and hedge-row, village, field and shock,
Dancing in lightning's transitory gleam:
To see the thunderbolt with fiery arm
Arrest the mountain top, and sweal his brow,
While round the sultry theatre of heaven
The peal impatient rides, and steeds of gloom
Whirl his benighted car from pole to pole.

Be night serene, and her fair moon replete,
And other pleasures shall the bard attend.
Planet of harvest, oft in the dun east
Thy full autumnal orb let me behold
As from a furnace rising red with heat,
And, while it mounts the purple steep of heaven,
Glowing more ardent, till it seem to reach

The point of fusion, and, suspended high,
A globe intense of molten bullion hang
Amid the gems of night. And let me hear,
As thy dim orb above th' horizon swells,
The shout of harvest-home, the loud huzza,
The natural hallelujah of the clown,
His chorus of thanksgiving for release.

Now let me mark civility's arrears
Where'er recorded, and repay at eve
The long-due visit to the distant friend,
That, by the full orb lighted, I may march
Mute and contemplative at leisure home.
Mild be the temp'rature of heav'n, serene
The silent atmosphere. Let fancy deem
She feels the moon-beam warm. Be nothing heard,
Save the far-distant murmur of the deep—
Or the near grasshopper's incessant note,
That snug beneath the wall in comfort sits,
And chirping imitates the silvery chink
Of wages told into the ploughman's palm—
Or gentle curlew bidding kind good night
To the spent villager, or e'er his hand

The cottage taper quench—or grazing ox
His dewy supper from the savoury herb
Audibly gathering—or cheerful hind
From the lov'd harvest feast returning home,
Whistling at intervals some rustic air,
Or at due distance chanting in the vale
Exhilarated song. Such rural sounds,
If haply notic'd by the musing mind,
Sweet interruption yield, and thrice improve
The solemn luxury of idle thought.

Oft at yon huddled town, that guards remote
The sounding ship-yard and contiguous port,
By sweet civility detain'd, the bridge,
At such late hour returning, let me pass;
What time aloft the moon, no more rotund,
Shines gibbous o'er the pure and still expanse
Of tide-uplifted Ouse, and lends to Night
An ample mirror, where her sober eye,
Her twinkling jewelry and face serene
Thrice placid and thrice beauteous, may behold.

If not abroad I sit, but sip at home
The cheering beverage of fading eve,

By some fair hand, or e'er it reach the lip,
With mingled flavour tinctur'd of the cane
And Asiatic leaf, let the mute flock,
As from the window studious looks mine eye,
Steal foldward nibbling o'er the shadowy down,
And take their farewel of the savoury turf.
Let the reluctant milch-kine of the farm
Wind slowly from the pasture to the pail.
Let the glad ox, unyok'd, make haste to field,
And the stout wain-horse, of encumbrance stript,
Shake his enormous limbs with blund'ring speed,
Eager to gratify his famish'd lip
With taste of herbage, and the meadow brook.

To him who in the beam of morning walks,
How lovely blossoms the September rose,
Which, unexpected, 'mid his flow'rless shrubs
Unfolds its blushing solitary bud,
Humid with autumn's equinoctial tear,
And, bowing with the gale, the treasur'd dew
Sheds in abundance from its leaning cup!
To him not pleasureless, as o'er the down
He roams contemplative, the mystic spot

Where fable dreams the midnight fairies dance,
A ring of deepest verdure, thick beset
With mushrooms rosy-gill'd and cloth'd in snow,
Seats for the wearied fay perhaps, minute,
If ample, tables for the royal feast
Of Mab and Oberon. Such poor account
Gives baffled reason, in her childish mood,
Of the mysterious cause that wields unseen
The compasses of heaven, and circumscribes
The free fantastic circle of the hill.

Not without pleasure hears the bard the voice
Of drone inert, from the rich hive dismiss'd,
Seeking apartments in the riven wall
Of some old edifice, and sounding loud
His drowsy horn at the convenient mouth
Of auger-hole profound, his best retreat,
There long to sleep, and winter's storm defy.
Not such delight affords the senseless fowl,
Which now, with sedulous maternal care,
Her brood of twitt'ring little ones leads forth,
And fondly cautions. Grievous is the sight,
However welcome when soft spring prevails,

Now to behold her from the secret nest
The cheerful troop conducting. Silly bird!
It is the sun of autumn, not of prime,
Whose fost'ring beam invigorates awhile
Thy happy race. 'Tis not the smile of May,
But faint October flattery, soon fled.
Or e'er to-morrow's sun in clouds descend,
The show'ry occident's o'erwhelming gust
Thee and thy hover'd train shall almost drown,
Be shelter'd as thou wilt. And if thou 'scape
The deluge prone-descending, the keen North
Shall pinch them bitterly; for now the breeze
The morning blush provokes on beauty's cheek,
And nature's own inimitable rose
Gives to the human face angelic charms.

Unwelcome howls the equinoctial gale
To him who hears it on his orchard floor
Shower the midnight apple or the pear.
But not unwelcome to the pilfering boy
Blows the rude hurricane, who pockets snug
The batter'd windfall, whether pear or plum,
Apple or walnut, and in secret feasts;

Nor to the swine, perchance, who shares his spoil,
Or finds beneath the oak a plenteous meal
Of acorns thrash'd and winnow'd by the gale.
Nor more unwelcome howls the storm to me.
Pleasant the hearth and converse snug within,
While the nocturnal tempest raves without,
For entrance buffeting the sash in vain;
And while the sullen show'r from the drench'd eaves
Drips fast, and on the flooded pavement spanks.
In such a night, who feels not Heav'n his friend,
To bless him with a warm secure abode
Impervious to the blast and chilly show'r?
Who feels it not vast privilege, to sit
And court the glowing embers of his hearth,
Till at his bidding their aspiring flames
Illuminate and cheer his farthest room?
Who deems it not rich pleasure, then, to read
By the clear taper unannoy'd, or sweep
The strings of harmony unvex'd, and hear
At ev'ry pause the persevering storm
Rave at his window, in his chimney howl?
Who thinks his lot unhappy, then, to sup

At an ill-furnish'd board, whose only fare
Springs from the dairy and the winnow'd floor?
Who deems not shelter and a crust a feast,
To the hard fate of him who plods without
Fatigued and weather-foil'd, or his more hard
Who wrestles with inclement skies above
And tossing seas beneath, nor dares retire,
Fearful of shipwreck, till the dawn returns?
Is he not lapp'd in Paradise, who thinks,
Ere slumber close his eyes, how others toil,
While peace and comfort curtain him around?

If morn, attended by the storm, awake,
Glad let me mount the cloud-invading cliff,
Which from the hollow of the vale beneath
Suddenly springs, as if Britannia here
First rose insurgent on the tyrant deep,
And her vast limbs to his assault oppos'd.
There let me mark the conflict, from above,
When, by the tempest aided, Ocean sacks
And wears the precipice with giant war:
When the grim thunder-cloud assault upholds,
And with his forky bolt and roaring peal

100

E'en to its base the cloven mountain shakes.
There also let me sometimes stand, when peace
Reigns in the vale below, and view well-pleas'd
The quiet element that smiles beneath,
Image of patience, as the cygnet's down
Gentle and inoffensive. Far extends,
And far as it outstretches lies unmov'd
The marble flood, a spacious pavement, smooth
And fairly polish'd. 'Tis the floor of heaven,
Which none but God's own foot presumes to tread.

Tide of the falling leaf, let others sing
Of thy ten thousand tints; I love them not.
Oft as I mark upon the woody vale
The hue rubiginous of fast decline,
I sigh to think how soon the lovely scene
Shall pass away, how soon the whiffling gale
Shall strip its faded honours from the grove,
And whirl them in its tyrant mood aloft,
Or idly sweep and hurry them along
Through park and paradise, or urge them fierce
Into the dank and solitary pit.
Yes, I could wail aloud, shed very tears,

101

And stamp for anguish at a scene like this.
Once only loves my soul to see the gale
Seize the dry leaf, and worry it along—
When the dwarf oak, that all the winter through
Has stood tenacious of its wither'd pride,
And the sear beech, of its old whisp'ring spoils
Alike retentive, sheds them to the breeze,
Erelong intending to be fairer cloth'd,
And with more lovely foliage grace the wood.
I could thy persecution then enjoy,
Thou playful gust, that hurries from my sight
The perish'd leaf of the departed year.
I could the ling'ring fugitive pursue,
Howl after him like thee, and bid him hide
His ugly aspect in the darksome cave.
But shall I join thee now, or praise the cry
Which hastens Autumn to an early fall,
Which ruins elegance, and rural pride,
And all the eye and all the heart adores
Of beauty that adorns the summer vale?
No, let me mourn thy rapid tyranny,
That lays the prospect waste, and bid thee urge

102

With more becoming zeal the loit'ring steps
Of uncouth Winter, shrugging at the blast,
And slow approaching with frost-bitten heel,
Step after step, from his cold Arctic cell.

104

BOOK III.

ARGUMENT OF THE THIRD BOOK.

The pleasures of the favourite village during Winter—Amusing presages of stormy weather—The winter tempest described, as a cause of pleasure—the agitated sea—its invasion of the Parish-clerk—The pleasure of viewing the port and its mercantile labours—Reflections on the sun and moon—Pleasures of the Winter's morning—of the Winter's walk—the rainbow &c.—Frost and its pleasures—the clear-shining moon— the rime, and its thaw—boys sliding—Reflections on the power of frost—The fall of snow—its intermission—its final cessation—The pleasure of walking out when it has subsided, and observing various animals—Christmas and its pleasures —the boy singing carols—The return of fog and thaw—gradual disappearance of the snow—Pleasure of viewing the leafless wood—Agreeable symptoms of spring not far distant, seen in different flowers—in the improving warmth of the sun—in the length of the days. The pleasure of walking in the sunshine—and observing the first bloom that begins to appear.

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Yet Winter has its pleasures. 'Tis delight
To mark the symptom of his frequent storm.
Not seldom, previous to the morrow's shower,
A flaky vapour the pure æther streaks;
As if some painter of gigantic arm
Had dipp'd his brush into the foamy wave,
Charg'd it with colour from the cliff, and dash'd
With wanton levity a milky bow
Across the dome of heav'n. Nor sometimes seems
His saucy hand with single stroke content,
But daubs with quick return the azure arch,
Upon the blessed canopy sublime

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Vagaries flourishing, unsteady freaks,
Such, with her besom, round the morning hearth,
As giddy bar-maid fashions, trailing brisk
Her childish fancies o'er the sanded floor.
If yet the season to his race be kind,
Sharp stings the minor fly, chirurgeon keen,
With lancet petulant the manly shin
Provoking, oft repuls'd, nor slaking well
His thirst of blood, ere the vindictive hand
Of his vex'd patient fall, and with a frisk
The small phlebotomist indignant crush.
Forth from her haunt obscene, offensive sight!
Wanders Arachne, sable, filthy, vast.
Forth creeps the ling'ring snail; a silvery line,
Meand'ring devious o'er the plaister'd wall,
Marks his pituitous and slimy course.
With tardy shell and tender horn outstretch'd
He seeks the far-off leaf. Aloud and oft
The cock high-mounted with applauding wing
Sounds his clear trump, prophetic of the show'r;
While the daw people numerous, with plumes
Rapid and audible, the valley skim

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Or flock-fed down, or round the steeple sail,
Startling by fits the meditating ear
With mingled outcry of ten thousand throats.
Tight stretch'd, where'er suspended, or in croft,
Or sunny garden, or contiguous field,
Appears the cord the busy laundress strains.
Far off resounds the shore-assailing deep,
Sweeping with rude concussion the loose beach
Harshly sequacious of his refluent surge.
Sails landward, high uplifted, the grey host
Of wide-wing'd sea-mews, in their gyrous flight
Oft intermingling, and repeating oft
Sounds which the distant inexperienc'd ear
Might deem the cry of eager hounds remote.
Loud on the brink of her foul puddle quacks
The clam'rous duck, while her more silent lord,
With his green glossy nape, assiduous oils
His shining beak, and spreads the thin defence
With nice precision o'er his thirsty plumes.
So falls the shower in vain, and he secure
Stalks in the deluge, and defies it all,
The fine dew trickling from his sides unfelt;

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Nor needs, like chanticleer and his vex'd dames,
To hurry homeward when the flood descends,
To hang the tail, or seek the shed forlorn,
And shake the moisture from his madid wings.
Nothing impair'd, with clean and ruddy leg
Through ev'ry plash he wades, with chatt'ring beak
Fishes the miry shallow as he goes;
Or strays at large upon the dewy mead
In quest of snail, of slug, and winding worm;
Or, launching from the shore his feather'd fleet,
Pilots his dames along the flooded dyke.

As, when the daw throng on the steeple perch,
Ambitious of its loftiest vane, and smoke
Shot upwards from the funnel mounts erect,
Fair day succeeds; so when the turbid stream,
That issues from the chimney, falls depress'd,
And travels fog-like o'er the dewy field,
While at a distance the loud western-bell
Distinctly sings, day foul and pluvious comes.
Dim the nocturnal sky; its feebler lights
Lost in the dense profound, its brighter gems
Obscurely visible. If chance the moon

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Cross the quench'd Empyrean, her sad orb
Shines with abated beam, and seems to wear
A misty atmosphere. Far in the void
An ampler circle with capacious zone
Her central disc encloses. Spiritless
At his round table sits the farmer lord;
A drowsy yawn his pipe-inhaling jaws
Relaxes often. At his foot the cur
Sleeps on the hearth outstretch'd, and yelping dreams,
Or lifts his head, astonish'd at the dance
Of frisking puss, who on the sanded floor
Gambols excessive. Such ere close of day
Were the wild antics of the frantic herd,
(Alike prophetic of the morrow storm,)
Who leap'd and rac'd, and bellow'd in the mead,
And clash'd their horny foreheads, staring fierce.
Dim in the socket burns the sulky wick,
Nor heeds the trimming hand, which oft divides
The kindled fibres of its nape in vain,
And to the oil redundant, that would drown
Its feeble flame, relieving sluice affords.

At length the long-expected tempest comes.

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His ancient phrenzy has the maniac deep
Seiz'd, and with loud reverberating foot
He dances rampant in his thund'ring hall.
His gloomy frown that darkens earth and heaven,
And foamy gnashing jaw, foretel ere long
Madness enormous to ensue. E'en now
He gnaws with keen exasperated tooth
The rock that holds him shorebound to his seat,
Buffets the pier and basis of the cliff,
Seizes the tilting triple-masted bark,
Light as a feather in his pow'rful grasp,
Kindles her sleeping thunder, and enjoys
Her frequent flashes of nocturnal woe.
Well nigh omnipotent, on the sunk reef,
Where roars the conflict of eternal storm,
And wave o'ertumbles wave in foamy fall,
He tosses furious her reluctant crew,
Snatches the quiver from the hand of heaven,
Scatters the glaring lightnings o'er their heads,
And pours the forceful thunder-peal around.
Pleas'd at her fate, he aggravates the storm,
Bellows profound, roars horrible delight,

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And bids the billow oft repeat the blow,
Till with unchainable gigantic arm
He thrusts her headlong to the deepmost Hell.

What greater pleasure, thou terrific deep,
Than when thy lifted tide proclaims aloud
The lunar orb renew'd, or at its hour
Of plenitude arriv'd, on thy bleak verge
To stand observant of the tumbling swell,
Enormous cataract from cliff to cliff
Thund'ring along indignant! High in air
Flashes the plunging downfall as it flies.
Its foamy vengeance to the topmost shore
Impetuous rushes, but ere long recedes,
Raking with harsh recoil the pebbly steep,
And scarce submitting to the monstrous surge
That next uplifts its overtumbling swell,
And flound'ring hurries o'er the wave relaps'd.
Feel'st thou no pleasure that thou sitt'st aloof
To whine and shudder, Frisk? There quake and pine,
Nor come obedient when thy master's lip
Kind invitation whistles, ill agreed
Sprawling aloft to meet the salient wave.

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Not such thy spirit, when insulted puss
Scampers the garden path, and climbs alert
The high espalier, there to swell and swear,
Or, in close corner pent, upheaves her coat,
And blust'ring cuffs thee with vindictive claw.
Nor such thy spirit, when the nimble hare
Starts from her seat, and scuds along the down;
Or when thy delicate and busy sense
Traces the covey in the morning dew,
Which sudden rises, and with whirring wing
And chuckling outcry hurries down the vale.

The winter sea's insufferable fall
Who not admires, and his surmounting wave,
Proudly rebellious, when the sable reef
Or foamy shallow intercepts his march?
How wrestles with the rock the billowy tide!
How storms with wanton fury the worn cliff!
How on the solid everlasting shore
Pours its loud cataract of thunder down!
Oft in that perilous and stormy hour,
Upon the farthest pier, whose daring pile
Strides far into the flood, and braves the surge

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Of the wild ocean in its angriest mood,
In tremulous enjoyment let me stand;
What time the gale with clamour-laden wing
Blows stiff and ill resisted, dashing fierce
The wave prodigious on his oaken breast,
Or smites oblique his everlasting side,
His chain of ribs enormous, show'r profuse
Of the vex'd waters on his lofty chest
Heavily pouring. Then who stands to see
Must ill-defended shrink within the verge
Of the strong work that shudders at the blow,
And undercreep the cope high overblown
Of vaulting waters, or abide ill-pleas'd
Bath instantaneous in a drown'd surtout.
Thou awful element, my soul adores
Thy furious hour, and with excessive joy
Marks thine invasion, when the grasp of God
Quits its restraint upon the turbid swell,
And pours almighty to the topmost strand
In deluge mountainous the milky surge.
How hurries headlong the tumultuous tide,
At that dread moment, through his foamy jaws

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Into the mouth of Ouse! how spreads around
Its dying wave within the flooded port!
Forlorn and waterlock'd stands the lone mill
In the mid-lake apparent, close besieg'd,
By fearful inundation girded round.
Then with what joy, thou proud uplifted deep,
Turn I to look upon thy glorious wave,
That tumbles, foams, and thunders round the bay!
The mighty downfall, forcing from its seat
Th' incalculable pebble, piles it high,
Against it swells, and swelling upward heaves
With shoulder irresistible the mound,
Till the controlling moon bids haste away,
And rage indignant upon other shores.
Then leisurely withdraws the flound'ring surge,
And a chaste cestus of unsullied beach,
Of ev'ry feculence and foulness purg'd,
The waist of ocean girds. How battles then
The furious Ouse conflicting with the wave!
How rears his waters, and the saucy swell
Insulting buffets, overpow'rs his wrath,
And headlong hurries the disorder'd flood!

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The main retiring plays along the shore;
As sports the giant whale with the salt wave,
Inhaling and again repelling quick
The life-supporting tide, so sucks the deep
With repercussion harsh the pebbly beach
Into his foamy jaws, and so dispels.
By the strong action of his forceful lungs
The flint itself, made sleek, becomes rotund,
And silky to the touch: the very rock,
Hard-hearted though he seem, is smooth'd without;
And the soft pebble, by collision worn,
No angular asperity betrays.

Not always innocent the stormy tide,
That thus, ascending from the chas'd abyss,
Bellows tremendous. In the watery flat,
Under the shelter of the mill-pool wall,
Behold yon humble and succinct abode.
There dwelt of late response-pronouncing sage,
The village-clerk parochial, nothing rich.
Forty long years he delv'd into the soil,
Threw up the crumbled bone and lipless scull,
Shap'd to the coffin his well-finish'd work,

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And eas'd into the grave the silent corpse,
Commending dust to dust. Still sprang anew
The transient offspring of deciduous man,
And still by his all-overwhelming spade
Were shelter'd deep beneath the holy sward.
Thrice fell his pulpit lord, and he, who sheds
Now on each infant cheek baptismal dew,
In his long recollection was a child
Borne but a day since to the font himself.
There liv'd the sage, there died. But ere he died,
Strong blew the southern gale; the naked branch
Loud howling wrestled with the pow'rful gust,
And ocean wroth his terrifying voice
Utter'd profound. The shore-assailing wave
Uplifted swell'd prodigious, and his bound
With foamy far-shot indignation scal'd.
The practicable breach, by lunar aid,
O'erflowing Ouse in his surmounted wall
Ere long effected, and the valley swam.
Distress acute the pious houshold seiz'd,
To see their supellectile treasures float
In playful dance around, to see the flood

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Yet rushing inward, and the hissing grate
Now quenching, filling now the mouth
Of oven seldom fed, and now the small
And lowly casement laving with its wave.
Despair of safety by ascent was there;
For ah! the low-roof'd messuage above earth
No story boasted, and no stair-way own'd.
Drown'd was the tenement, and almost drown'd
The holy habitant. But wreck was none,
Save of domestic chattels, here and there
In culinary whirlpool swimming few.
So battled ocean with the tuneful sage.
Not such thine enterprize, indignant flood,
When, by the resolute shore-shaking God
To battle summon'd, thine imperious surge
With tow'ring deluge the victorious host
Of stone-stunn'd Hector to his Troy repuls'd.

The sight of Winter's superb ocean left,
Me pleases much the bustle of the port;
The toil and clamour of the prosp'rous bark,
Safe landing on the wharf with brisk dispatch
Her sable cargo from the northern mine:

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The neater vessel her capacious lap
Filling with grain, or (stowage ponderous)
The mealy sack of the contiguous mill,
Welcome supply to the far-distant camp,
Or wind-bound fleet of war; the slothful barge
Slug-like conveying from the sloop her deals,
Another from the sloven brig her load
Of nauseous grocery, abundant store
For ev'ry village on the banks of Ouse,
And chiefly for yon borough built in air,
Whose ancient castle lifts its brow sublime
To frown upon the flood they cross below.

Brief is the day, but, shorten'd as it is,
Sweet meditation to the muse affords.
Long on the sullen forehead of the morn
The frown of darkness dwells, prolonging night,
And gloomily reluctant breaks the dawn.
The cock, impatient, for the morning calls;
And now the dismal orb of slumb'ring day
With melancholy visage through the gloom
Scarce penetrates, and sickly twilight sheds.
Feeble the splendor of his moody smile,

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And soon his race concludes. He seems at length,
Fatigued by journeying six thousand years,
To ask his promis'd sabbath, pants for rest,
And early seeks his inn. Not such the speed
And nightly progress of his sister orb;
She, cheerful and alert, soon as his ray
Is quench'd in ocean, rises from her bed,
And with affectionate protracted beam
Strives to compensate for his absent light.
Round the cerulean firmament of heaven
She walks, an ample circuit, second day,
Inferior hardly to the shorter first,
Through the long night dispensing. He his head
Lifts from his maritime cloud-curtain'd couch,
Surveys, disdaining competition still,
Her amiable effort, droops again,
And longer sleeps inert. And some there are,
Who, dwelling far remote on Arctic plains
Buried in snow eternal, his pure orb
See never now, or see but half emerge,
Recumbent ere it rise, or share alone
The feeble twilight of his disc depress'd,

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Which once a day illuminates unseen
The horizontal verge of endless night.
To them the moon, immeasurably kind,
Sinks never, but with everlasting march,
Waxing and waning 'mid the stellar host,
The cynosure encircles. Heaven there
Seems a vast dome, whose change-performing orb
And brilliant host of ever-living gems,
Hung on the boreal star that shines alone
Fast-fix'd and vertical, swim round and round,
And never, weary of their whirling dance,
Quit the celestial cupola sublime,
To seek refreshment in the gelid wave.
Such vast benevolence, sweet orb, is thine.
Nor, trust me, can inferior love of man
Be to her brother orb imputed. Both
Are the sweet progeny of one above,
Whose name is Bounty, and inherit both,
Twin-born, the boundless goodness of their sire.
Their business here is to enlighten man,
Else void of eyesight, and his needful bread
Cherish with kind invigorating beam.

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On this their gracious task intent toil both,
Incessant labourers, and never pause,
As fancy deems, o'erwearied with fatigue,
Or sleep, or ask relief. When he the zone,
That girds the waist of earth, with northward march
Crosses refulgent, and his sister meets,
He bids her with a smile this Arctic world
Quit, and illuminate the pole below,
Her day prolonging as he shortens his.
So when his blazing chariot flames on high
To rear the northern harvest, she depress'd
Lightens the frosty hemisphere beneath,
To us apparent little, long withdrawn.
She knows that summer's night needs not her beam,
Contracts her feeble day, and soon retires,
Because her ardent helpmate soon returns.
And when again with retrogressive car
He journeys southward, and the fancied belt
Of earth repasses, with fraternal kiss
He bids her hasten to the wint'ry north,
While he dispenses to Antarctic realms,
That will not mourn her absence, sweet return

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Of blossom, foliage, fruit, and food. Such now
His task benevolent. To us alone
He seems subdued by sloth. For while on high
Her everlasting lamp his sister hangs,
To light a frozen world he seems to scorn
And visit with reluctance, he below
Reigns bountiful, and with indulgent beam
Bids plenty flourish to the farthest pole.
Such are thy bounteous children, bounteous sire,
Such thy twain dutiful obedient orbs,
Which thus to all mankind, by night, by day,
Whatever season rules whatever clime,
Distribute equal portions of thy love.

Not pleasureless the morn, when dismal fog
Rolls o'er the dewy plain, or thin mist drives;
When the lone timber's saturated branch
Drips freely, and with large redundant drop
The spread umbrella pelts, which the chill'd tooth
Screens, and o'ercanopies the languid lock.
Shorn of his glory, through the dim profound
With melancholy aspect looks the orb
Of stifled day, and while he strives to pierce

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And dissipate the slow reluctant gloom,
Seems but a rayless globe, an autumn moon,
That gilds opaque the purple zone of eve,
Nor yet distributes of her thrifty beam.
Lo! now he conquers; now, subdued awhile,
Awhile subduing, the disparted mist
Yields us a brighter beam, or darker clouds
His crimson disc obscure. Through the thin veil
Of his foul mantle reads the bard, well-pleas'd,
A kindling glimpse of the pure azure field
Of heav'n's unbounded champain, and the hour
Of winter's noon serene with inward joy
Greets ere it bless his sight. To him who walks
Now in the shelter'd mead, loud roars above
Among the naked branches of the elm,
Still fresh'ning as the hurried cloud departs,
The strong Atlantic gale. Not louder falls
The foamy lasher's cataract superb
In fullest flood-time, when impatient Thames
Fights with the lock which chains him to his seat,
And strives to burst his manacles in vain.

Yet not devoid of pleasure is the field,

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Howe'er the gale may buffet, nature still
Some grateful objects yielding to the sight.
Though brown the common with its wither'd fern,
And sad the valley with its leafless wood,
Yet crimson haws, and hips of ruddy hue,
And cluster'd privet-berries, dark as jet,
The cheerful hedge-row sprinkle. Lo! the plant,
Joy of the traveller yclep'd, or beard
Of old man seldom razor'd, lusty still,
Though neighbour'd by the prickly bramble, smiles,
The long lane whitening with its woolly tufts.
Beneath it mark a sear'd and cindery spot,
Which scatter'd straws encompass. There encamp'd
The last night's wearied vagrant, mumbled there
His mildew'd maintenance by whining earn'd;
There quaff'd the cup his tatter'd female brew'd,
And slept profound upon the musty truss.
Fool! to prefer such execrable fare,
Such vile accommodation, to the bread
Of pious toil, and comfortable hut,
Where Industry around the glimm'ring hearth
Her never-ailing progeny convenes,

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And sober Labour, her well-wearied spouse,
His ev'ning meal enjoys, or sits refresh'd
And hums his rustic sonnet, as he jogs
The laughing little-one on either knee.
Fool! to be vagabond and rather beg,
While his loud hussey, in her cobbled suit
Of sulphur redolent and of the green
And sobbing ember of the smoky hearth,
Screams through the village miserable song,
Vendress of ballads and the bundled match.

Not distant far the river-swelling show'r,
If after blust'ring day come tranquil night,
And, ere the morning dawn, clothe marsh and mead
In the hoar coverlet of snowy frost.
Clear though the glowing orb of day ascend,
Pale watery radiance shall it shed around,
And soon be muffled by the creeping cloud,
That with it bears the tempest, wind and hail,
Or copious show'r aslant of pelting rain.
Oft though he smile, as often shall he frown;
And when at last he takes a sweet farewel,
And sinks into the blue and billowy main,

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The beauteous bow shall, by his beam impress'd,
Glow on the bosom of the cloud that flies.
O beautiful display, rejoicing sight,
How elegant the pleasure drawn from thee!

Soft be the breath of heav'n, and through the clear
Transparent atmosphere distinctly shine
The beauteous landscape, its remotest hill
Unveiling of the blue ethereal mist,
Which distance o'er the faded prospect draws;
What surer symptom of approaching fall?
Of rains to be renew'd? But what if day
Should sob and whimper, and the sullen show'r
Draw its dense curtain o'er the dewy hill,
While glutted earth her quiv'ring puddle shews
Vex'd by the pattering show'r? While the soak'd thatch
Drips hasty from the barn, and while the shoot,
Gushing precipitous with bounding spout,
Its clinking reservoir the hollow pipe
Fills merrily, within from pen or page
Sweet satisfaction may the bard derive.
Meantime the hov'ring flood spreads wide his wings,
And, fix'd in firm array, with leafless heads,

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In his mid-waters stand the root-bound files
Of wretched willow. Soon as morn returns,
The sportsman's tube, disglutted o'er the lake,
Pours a long echo pealing as it flies.

Keen blows the wind, and frosty night ensues.
The hearth burns clear, and a blue lambent flame
Plays round its glowing embers. Ill endures
The limb protruded its shin-piercing power,
And the scorch'd eyelid intervention asks
Of handkerchief uplifted, doubled news,
Hand ill at ease, or tipsey-footed screen.
The fev'rous kettle with internal coil
And ebullition totters on the bars,
Forth sending furious from its brazen lungs
Intense evaporation, fog and dew
Instinct with fire, to hand that dares approach
Intolerable as the parching gust
Sirocco, from the burning desert blown.
With folded feet inverted slumbers puss
The livelong ev'ning on the quilted hearth,
Or warmer knee, caress'd and often strok'd,
Till gratitude awakes and lulls the ear

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With drowsy murmurs of internal praise.
Look but abroad, and lo! the cheerful moon,
Long since ascended from her cloudy couch,
High over head presides. Frost-loving Queen,
At winter's midnight how intense the grace
Which thy pure globe displays! The sullen sun,
How fled he discontent, a little curve
His hasty march describing, a few hours
Quenching his feeble beam! But thy clear orb
Delights to linger o'er a frozen world.
How sweetly rose it o'er yon woody hill,
How gaily smil'd upon the tranquil flood,
Seen from the bridge that overstrides the vale,
And now how glows it in the midst of heaven!
Methinks, I feel thy beam. My heart at least
Is warm'd, is melted by thy sovereign ray.
And oh! like thee, that ev'ry friend we own
Were most indulgent in an hour like this.
Beautiful art thou; and if thou art fair,
How fair is He whose wonder-working hand
Thy beauty fram'd! If to thy lovely orb
I almost bow and hail thee as divine,

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What adoration would my soul o'erflow,
Might I the cloud that curtains Him around
Withdraw, and see him beauteous as he is?
Fountain of elegance, unseen thyself,
What limit owns thy beauty, when thy works
Seem to possess, to faculties like mine,
Perfection infinite? The merest speck
Of animated matter, to the eye
That studiously surveys the wise design,
Is a full volume of abundant art.
If to the spot invisible we strain
Our aching sight, and with microptic tube
Bring it at last within our feeble ken,
What beauty owns it not? what crowded grace?
No point to Thee so delicately fine
Can reason fancy, where thy curious hand
May not have couch'd innumerable charms,
Could we down stretch our slender faculty,
Our visual ray so feculent and dull,
And read the wonders microscopic eye
Has taught us never, and shall never learn.

Is it no pleasure, when prevailing frost

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Has harden'd earth's dank surface, and the foot
Treads upon rock where erst it sank absorb'd—
Is it no pleasure, ere the rising sun
Has drawn away the raw unwholesome fog
That dwells upon the vale, to venture forth
And mark the wonders of the midnight rime;
To pace it briskly o'er the plain, beset
With bents and rushes fear, erewhile erect
And little notic'd, nodding now, superb
As plumes upon the hearse, or rosy brow
Of beauty deck'd for conquest in the dance?
Where are the treasuries of water now?
Delicate element, wherever lodg'd,
How shuns thy fearful fluid the keen touch
Of arrow-breathing frost, o'er ev'ry plash,
And ev'ry furrow of the ploughing wheel,
And ev'ry socket which the pastern left
Erewhile impeded, a transparent plate,
Studded with beads or crystal spikes serene,
Relinquishing, and shrinking into earth!
The very flood, that but a fair day since
Spread wide his thin invasion, is constrain'd

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Within his barrier. His arrested tide
In fragments hangs suspended o'er the dyke
Hollow beneath, and bursting with loud crash
Surprises oft both traveller and steed,
Startled alike at its immediate fall.
Touch'd by the genial orb, the scatter'd rime,
That whiten'd ev'ry meadow, steals away;
Save where the molehill intercepts the beam,
Or steepy brow, or intervening hedge,
Or furrow westward tending. On each blade
Of the flock-nibbled field it hangs serene
In brilliant dew-drops, twinkling bright as stars,
Another heav'n, which the clear orb of day
Not quenches but illumes, a dazzling shew
Of constellations kindled as we pass;
Reflecting some his introverted beam
Pure as deriv'd, his hue of orange some
Presenting only, sparks of amber deem'd.

Again night passes, and severer frost
Binds fast impeded nature. Soon as morn
Kindles, the village younker tries his foot
Upon the frozen margin of the pool,

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Fearful to venture on the slippery floor,
Lest, bursting with abrupt and hideous crash,
It drown his instep, and his naily shoe
Drench with the chilling element below.
Bold with success, he tries a daring stroke
Along its verge, and now magnanimous
Darts o'er the fragile center of the flood
His long resounding slide. Safe borne to shore,
He turns impatient, and with rushing heel
Shapes o'er the pond his parallel return.
Then round and round he leads his gliding team
Of school-mates well-assur'd, and panting sport
Glows with her effort, nor bestows a thought
Upon the lurking peril of her game.

Oft let me ponder on thy strong control,
Thou wonder-working frost, that in a night
The miry way, impassable at eve,
Converts to iron, which nor foot, nor wheel,
Nor tool can penetrate—covers the lake,
E'en to the kicksey vulnerable erst,
With adamantine war-defying shield,
Which braves the pressure of a host unhurt—

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Arrests the rivulet—the river binds—
Lays its imperious mandate on the gulph,
And fetters navigation to its shore—
In resolute embrace the whaler locks
Amid sea anchor'd, fearless of surprise—
And launches now a continent of ice
To wreck the war-ship in the midmost deep.

Wild flies the mid-day vapour dense and foul,
And soon shall come the fall. O'er the blue deep
Of beauteous ether trails the lazy cloud,
A sable fleece, repository dark
Of murky snows unwinnow'd, stooping low,
Lambent already of the topmost hill.
Few flakes of ev'ry size float through the air,
As undetermin'd or to rise or fall:
Caught by the circling eddy of the breeze,
Lo! now they mingle all in rapid dance,
And with a sweep descend. A feathery show'r
Of flakes enormous follows, 'lighting soft
As cygnet's down, or egret from the head
Of thistle ravish'd. Oft against the shower
Homeward returns the steeple-loving daw,

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But, blinded still, with agitated wing
Down drops, struggling in vain, and to the branch,
Which midway meets him in his worried flight,
Retires defeated. To his early couch,
The golden lap of the vast western cloud
Which spreads beneath him its capacious bed,
Hastens the sun, or through the saffron skirt
Of the dark cloud that overtakes his orb
Snow-shedding, with dishevell'd beams aslant
Disorder'd smiles. In his pale watery ray
Glitters the distant vane and gilded clock.
Night follows, muffled in profoundest gloom.
The sullen gale howls in the dismal elm,
Or in the chimney groans, with sudden gust
Oft forcing downward a sulphureous puff
Noisome below. Against the window pelts,
Scarce heard, at intervals, the frozen show'r,
And, ev'ry crevice ent'ring, piles within
Drift unperceiv'd of its thrice-bolted flake.

How chang'd the day-break! The bright yester sun
Led forth a peerless morn, and smiling scal'd
The still meridian of heav'n's ample dome,

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Cloudless, and lin'd with an unspotted vest
Of purest blue; while laughing earth beneath
Shew'd no reluctant verdure, well content,
However keen the season, to expand
Her vernal mantle o'er the humid field.
Now breaks, in vapour wrapt, the piercing dawn.
Unusual light upon the ceiling thrown
Wakes from its slumber the suspicious eye,
And bids it look abroad on hill, and dale,
Cottage, and steeple, in the niveous stole
Of Winter trimly dress'd. The silent show'r,
Precipitated still, no breeze disturbs,
While fine as dust it falls. Deep on the face
Of the wide landscape lies the spotless flood
Accumulating still, a vast expanse,
Save where the frowning wood without a leaf
Rears its dark branches on the distant hill,
Or hedge-row, ill-discern'd, with dreary length
Strides o'er the vale encumber'd, or lone church
Stands vested weatherward in snowy pall,
Conspicuous half, half not to be discern'd.
The yester wain, that thunder'd as it pass'd,

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Nor made impression on the rugged plain
With frozen sockets rough, now softly moves,
And labours silent through the feathery drift,
As if its every wheel and every hoof
Were shod with noiseless felt or stiller down.
How fair the deluge that enwraps the hill!
Its whiteness shames the murky cloud above,
Makes ocean turbid seem and doubly foul,
And to the sullied aspect of the cliff
Allows no neatness. What if the clear orb
Of night or day from the pure vault of heaven
Look unimpeded down! How glowing then
The thrice-bleach'd purity of earth beneath,
Wrapt like a spirit in a blaze of light!
And how excels her splendor, well oppos'd
By the deep azure of the heav'n above!

Short is the pleasure of the transient gleam.
The penetrating breeze, whose frozen gale,
Midway the seldom-breathing East between
And North of arrowy lungs, blows from a cave
Of everlasting ice redundant cloud
And the strong current of perpetual snow,

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Sweeps from the hoary brow of shuddering earth
Her powder'd wreath, strips her broad shoulders bare,
And mingles with its fine and rapid shower
The flakes that settled on her breast in vain.
With insult riotous aloft in air
It lifts the deluge, from the summit swept,
And drifts it deep along the vale below.
How stings the gust, distressful to the face
And ill-defended ear, while o'er the plain,
Screen'd by no hedge-row, lies the bitter path!
And how delights the persecuted cheek
To meet the glowing shelter of high wood,
Or garden wall prolix, or endless pale!
Pure shines the flake we trample, crusted o'er
With icy plate, where'er the feeble ray
Of the short morning gleam dissolv'd awhile
Its dazzling treasures. Yet sustains it not
The tread of passenger alert, but, crush'd
And forcibly condens'd, complains aloud
Of the hard pressure of his froward foot.
Incessant frost prevails. In every nook,
Key-hole, and angle, howls the whiffling gust,

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And quaintly imitates man's whisp'ring voice,
His sigh, and groan profound. Snow falls apace.
On either margin of the rippling brook
Appears a border of encroaching ice,
Which o'er its surface creeps. Under its wings,
Chastely transparent, merrily alive,
Glides unarrested still the living stream.
Fresh at the bottom, mindless of the storm,
Smiles the green cress aquatic; till at length,
Spike after spike advancing, in midstream
The furrowy surface closes. Ill-discern'd
And all unheard travels the brook beneath;
Nor seldom, by the ceaseless drift o'erwhelm'd,
Lives unperceiv'd, and the deep-plunging foot
Wraps without notice in suffusion chill.
Slow moves the torpid river: flakes of ice
Stoop from the bank to kiss his shrinking stream,
Which, lazily advancing, yet appears
To reek with labour. On his surface float
Isles desolate and horrid, snow-besprent,
Of his own frozen waters. Change is near.
Slow falls the weary flake, and yon dun cloud

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Briskly ascending from the cottage hearth,
Pillar voluminous of lofty smoke,
Foretells that soon their idle lapse shall cease.
Lo! it subsides. The foul depending cloud
Draws ling'ring upward its apparent skirt,
And through its sever'd fleece shews ill-refin'd
The welcome azure. O'er the city swells
The cloud prodigious of uplifted smoke,
Wrapping her distant steeples in eclipse
Soon to be swept away. Yet ere the shut
Of evening comes, shall the departing beam
Of the low sun delight us, and the moon,
Soon as he disappears, in the fair east
Rise ample-orb'd upon a waste of snow.

Meantime what pleasure yields the rural walk!
Delights it not to pass the thresher's close,
What time with instant wing from their scant meal
Of winnow'd draff the sparrow swarm upspring?
The mingled hurry of their sounding plumes
How startles it the ear, while they alert
Along the hedge-row show'r, or sit aloft,
And from the summit of the leafless elm

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Excessive chirpings pour; fond parliament,
Where all are speakers, and none sits to hear!

In thick and horrent coat, no longer sleek,
With heels unclipp'd, and shaggy mane promiss,
In his lone corner stands the leering colt,
At leisure relishing his scanty meal
Of thin up-shaken forage. To the cow,
That with a wishful look his feast surveys
At fearful distance fix'd, from his white eye
Revers'd he flashes indignation strong
And peremptory menace, crouching close,
And trampling loose on his vindictive heel,
With sullen down-laid ear. Not far remote,
Round the sweet remnant of the hoarded rick
Slic'd to a core, or solitary wain
In the still bottom of the shelter'd vale
For their subsistence plac'd, convenes the flock,
Of their approaching meal-time duly aware.
Eagerly throng they, as of yore they troop'd
In the dry summer's eve, with hurried bell
And dust-provoking tread, to village pool,
Or valley trough from the near well supplied.

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Subdued by hunger, the poor feathery tribes
Small dread of man retain, though wounded oft,
Oft slain, or scar'd by his resounding tube.
The fieldfare grey, and he of ruddier wing,
Hop o'er the field unheeding, easy prey
To him whose heart has adamant enough
To level thunder at their humbled race.
The sable bird melodious from the bough
No longer springs, alert and clamorous,
Short flight and sudden with transparent wing
Along the dyke performing, fit by fit.
Shudd'ring he sits, in horrent coat outswoln.
Despair has made him silent, and he falls
From his lov'd hawthorn, of its berry spoil'd,
A wasted skeleton, shot through and through
By the near-aiming sportsman. Lovely bird,
So end thy sorrows, and so ends thy song.
Never again in the still summer's eve,
Or early dawn of purple-vested morn,
Shalt thou be heard, or solitary song
Whistle contented from the watery bough,
What time the sun flings o'er the dewy earth

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An unexpected beam, fringing with flame
The cloud immense, whose shower-shedding folds
Have all day dwelt upon a delug'd world.
No, thy sweet pipe is mute, it sings no more.

High on the topmost branches of the elm
In sable conversation sits the flock
Of social starlings, the withdrawing beam
Enjoying, supperless, of hasty day.

Half-starv'd and petrified, the pigeon mopes
With bloated plumage on the dove-house tile,
And seems forgetful of his amorous bow
And note of love profound. No more he starts
With loud applauding wing from his hush'd cove,
Nor sweeps with swift career the snowy down.

But most of all subdued, or fearful least
Of man's society, with ruddy breast
Against the window beats, sagacious bird,
The robin. At the door half open left
Or by the gale unlatch'd, or narrow pass
Of air-admitting casement, or (to him
Sufficient port) the splinter'd aperture
Of attic pane demolish'd, with a flirt

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Enters the fledg'd intruder. He has left
His haunt divine, the woodhouse and the barn,
A feathery mendicant made bold by want,
And ev'ry little action asks aloud,
Alms the most indigent might well afford,
A drop of water and a crumb of bread.
Timid and sleek upon the floor he hops,
His ev'ry feather clutch'd, all ear, all eye,
And, springing swift at the first sound he hears,
Thumps for dismission on the healthy pane.
Sweet beggar, no. Impenetrable glass
Has clos'd around thee its transparent cage,
Escape denying. Satisfy thy need,
And, having fed, be free. Beneath my chair
Sit budge, a feathery bunch; upon its staves
Polish thy clatt'ring beak; with head revers'd
Dress ev'ry plume that decks thy plain surtout,
And either pinion of thy slender wing;
With bridled bill thy ruddy bosom smooth,
And, all perform'd, delight me, if thou wilt,
With a faint sample of contented song,
Concise and sweet. Then flit around the room,

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Cheerful though silent, seizing with an air
Each crumb diminutive which the last meal
Dropt unperceiv'd, and the religious broom
Unconscious left upon the woven floor,
Or which the hand of charity lets fall
Not grudging. Banquet here, and sleep to-night,
And, when thy morning meal is finish'd, fly;
Nothing unwelcome if thou dare return,
And daily seek the hospitable feast,
Strew'd to invite thee on the casement ledge.

Soon as eve closes, the loud-hooting owl,
That loves the turbulent and frosty night,
Perches aloft upon the rocking elm,
And hallooes to the moon. She mounting slow
Steers her wild voyage through a troubled sea
Of dissipated scud, apparent oft,
Oft intercepted by the billowy skirt
Of the fleet vapour, oft in part o'ercome,
Yet still victorious, be the storm how rude,
And nothing later at the port she seeks,
Retarded by the tide of adverse cloud.

Come, cheerful season, when the village-clerk

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With slips of evergreen his long aisle decks,
When cottage maids alert their windows trim
With the red berry and the varnish'd leaf
Of holly never sear, and hang on high
The tufted misletoe. It wins me much;
And, childish as the sage may deem the toil,
My hand shall help to decorate the pane.
The peasant female now, with finger nice
And curious scissar, fashions for her child
The paper ornament, and crowns his brow
And decorates his skirt with fair device.
Proud of his honours, at the pastor's door
He sings and shudders, chanting carol rude
Of comfort and of joy. His labour'd song
Humanity within hears with a smile,
Admires the casual tremor of its tones,
And the loose halfpenny with glad consent
Upon the frozen quaverer bestows.

Soon from the moist Antarctic breathes the gale,
And its ill-molten shower of arrowy sleet,
Storm fracture threat'ning of the pelted pane,
Scatters aslant and sloping to the breeze.

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Awhile congealing on the trunk expos'd
Of the lone tree, or timber stretch'd at length,
Or stile unshelter'd, or storm-facing gate,
Or slippery surface of uncover'd rock,
An icy coat it spreads around serene,
With gelid welcome the protruded hand
Surprising unobserv'd, beguiling too
Ofttimes the foot unwary, and with fall
Disgraceful vexing the confounded man,
All overwhelm'd and flound'ring in the drift.
Partial and brief the shower; for now a mist
Draws o'er the distant hill its dusky veil,
Now hovers in the valley, now involves
The total landscape, leaving to the eye
Small hemisphere and dark, a little world
Few yards encompassing, a cloudy coop,
That with the mover moves, and coops him still.
Touch'd by the trailing fog the mountain snows
Dissolve, and, hast'ning to the vale below,
Unite their waters, till combin'd in one
They fret the midway hill and gully deep
His flinty side. Insufferably foul

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The thicken'd torrent hurries down the vale,
And, every basin fill'd that stay'd its march,
Steers for the deep with still-increasing tide,
Till from the precipice abrupt it pours,
A foamy cataract that roars aloud,
And tinctures far beneath the decent vest
Of ocean fretful at its wild embrace.
The snowy pall from hill and dale slow thaw
At length removes, save where the tardy drift,
In dissolution ling'ring, last expires.
Ten thousand currents, tinctur'd by the soil
From whence they issue, hurry to the main.
E'en Ouse her silver purity has lost
And feminine deportment. Full of shame,
And wroth at her adulterated stream,
She flounces seaward, and complains aloud
To parent ocean of the wrong she feels.
Turbid and brown into the greedy deep,
Sated with feculence, the chider falls.

Scarce disappears the deluge, when the mole,
Close pris'ner long in subterraneous cell
Frost-bound, again the miner plays, and heaves

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With treble industry the mellow mound
Along the swarded vale. The shepherd's eye
With unforgiving enmity surveys
The long concatenated sweep of hills,
Whose soft and crumbling soil abridges more
The scanty pittance of his hungry fold.
Full in the pathway of his buried foe
The hollow engine of surprise he plants,
Portcullis treacherous, deceitful noose,
Which oft with sudden insult from his cave
Th' unwary toiler plucks, and hangs aloft
On dismal gibbet, swinging to the wind.
Behold! where now he undersaps the sward,
And lifts the recent soil. The passing cur
His persevering industry detects,
And stands with prick'd-up ear and lifted paw
His labours watching. In the crumbled hill
He plunges sudden his impatient feet,
And far behind him showers the loose earth
Pluck'd hastily away. With nose deep-sunk
He sniffs inquisitive, but seizes not
The wily engineer, in time aware.

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Such pleasure, such amusement Winter yields,
To him who loves with nature to converse,
And paint her image in immortal song.
E'en from the naked February wood,
Assemblage multitudinous of boughs,
He plucks contentment. There the giant oak
Uprears contorted its enormous arm,
Despoil'd of foliage, yet not unadorn'd
In the thin frippery of lichen dress'd
E'en to its utmost finger. There the birch
With fine-spun branch and silvery rind appears;
And there, retentive of its wither'd leaf,
The beech smooth-bodied, decorated oft
With names uncouth carv'd on its sinewy trunk.
At its foot thrives the winter-loving moss,
Luxuriant most when the bare branch above
Retains no verdure. During summer's heat,
However shelter'd, it grew sear and died,
Or seem'd to die; but, the dank hour arriv'd,
Lo! how it wraps about the wreathen root
Its shaggy mantle, flourishing profuse.
What loom e'er furnish'd for imperial floor

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Tapis more rich, or grateful to the foot?
What hand ere spread upon the smooth settee
Cushion more gentle, plushy pile more soft?
Nor only on the beech-root recent smiles,
Or wall of ancient edifice or field,
Or thatch decay'd that clothes the peasant's cot,
But oft amid the lean and meager turf
Of the low lawn, or hill, looks sprightly forth
The prosp'rous moss; there to the fond eye spreads
Its welcome carpet of refreshing green,
And freely blossoms in the piercing gust.

Bleak as it is, through day's severest gloom
Appears sweet promise of the milder year.
So testify the spurs ready to burst
And blossom gaily on the pear-tree bough;
And proves especially the forked branch
Of lilac, bearing at its either point
Twin buds protuberant: proves too, beneath,
Not venturesome in vain, the pendulous flower,
That, drooping, dares unveil its modest charms
E'en to the kiss of blossom-killing frost.
Pleas'd with her beauty, the tyrannic storm

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Not mars her elegance with surly touch,
But wraps his snows around her beauteous head,
And names her his for ever. Lead the year,
Thou welcome harbinger of softer days,
Drop, which, more lovely than the winnow'd flake
Which strives to hide thy charms, in the cold ear
Of Winter beauteous hang'st, and sham'st the fall
Most pure that veils thee, and extends around
Its candid drift in competition vain.
White in the shrubbery, at every turn,
Thy verdant tuft its bevy delicate
Of fair tripetalous depending flowers
Displays, and dances in the froward breeze.

Protected snug beneath the southern fence,
Lily of Lent, with diadem superb,
The monarch daffodil, uprears his head,
Nor dreads the guillotine of the keen gale.
Green at his side, with arrow-headed leaf,
Spring his attendant court, his train of peers
And peeresses superb, Ladies and Lords;
So name the rural folk the speckled cowls
That sheath the tender arum, yet alive

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And yet abundant, though the sable bird
Of sweetest melody the winter long
Dwelt here, and still with persevering beak
Harrow'd the soil, soon as the mid-day sun
The chains of frost unbound; keen democrat,
Making nobility his daily bread.

Sweet is the foretaste of returning Spring,
When, after dismal weeks of gloom and fog,
Reluctant February lifts at last
The cloudy turban from his sullen brow,
And cheers us with a short unwilling smile.
How pleasant then th' appearance here and there
Of the blue zenith through the muffled heaven!
How welcome the sun's clear but transient beam!
Its comfortable warmth the shoulder owns,
And the fond eye rejoices to survey
The shadow human, once again impress'd
Upon the bladeless turf. But soon departs
Th' invigorating gleam, and o'er the down,
Nothing retarded by intreaty, flits.
It visits now the lark, and wakes his song,
Now cheers the shepherd and his pregnant flock,

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Now climbs the mountain, and is seen no more.

If haply the dense curtain all withdraw,
And leave unclouded the pure vault of heaven,
How pleasant to behold the glowing sun
A more extended curve from rise to fall
Describing daily, from his billowy couch
Ascending earlier, later to his rest,
And better-pleas'd retiring with a smile!
How sweet a train of pleasurable days
Are beckon'd hither, and how soon shall dance
Each after other over down and dale!
Soon shall the vanquish'd night her empire yield,
And share the scepter with victorious day.
Darkness shall reign inferior; heav'nly light
Upon her either boundary shall steal,
Shall gird her round with beams, and dart a ray
Through the sad mantle of her dunnest hour.
How cheerfully my heart the sweet return
Of bud and bloom presages, sees ere seen
The daisy-sprinkled mead, and flowery dell,
And coppice-shelter'd primrose yet unblown!

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BOOK IV.

ARGUMENT OF THE FOURTH BOOK.

The pleasures of the favourite village during Spring—the warm sun, and first leaf and blossom of the year—the fine night and stormy day of March—the equinoctial sunrise—general appearance of nature—the flock—the ewe and lamb—the reptile basking in the sun—the first appearance of the flesh-fly —the pleasure of travelling at this season—various wild blossoms—the pea and bean—the plough-team—the group of weeders—the clear mid-day sun—the song of birds, especially the lark—the warmer day of Spring, and its effect upon the ploughman and his team—the appearance of the swallow —of the butterfly—of the child pursuing it—of the caterpillar —general view of nature—the first of May—the furze down —the garden—the hedge-row—birds building nests—the evening walk—agreeable vernal sounds of the favourite village —the walk at noon—The sight of cattle grazing—of boys playing at cricket—of other rural sports—of the mower —of the bean field—the clear evening not expected, and its agreeable imagery—the bee, an emblem of the bard—Conclusion.

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Say, when the northern gale of March blows keen,
Inducing ear-twitch, ague, pain acute
Of tooth decaying, pulmonary cough,
Or ach rheumatic of the shudd'ring limb,
Under the southern wall, yet unadorn'd,
Or hedge-row shelter of the rosy dyke,
Where blooms the pale-ey'd messenger of prime,
In the warm sunbeam of unclouded noon
Is it not heav'n to bask? Is it not heav'n
To walk beneath the high meridian wall,
Where the spruce apricot, a daring beau,
His leafless branches with advent'rous bloom

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Sparingly powders, or their blushing gems
Unfold, more cautious, nectarine and peach?
Lo! the flush'd almond tree, divinely fair!
Why blush her ruddy blossoms, but for shame
Of the bare bloomless branch that round her lives,
And shews no flower, and no leaf unfolds?
So redden'd erst the sacerdotal rod,
And dropp'd its bloom, and deck'd its branch with fruit,
While not a bud the naked stems adorn'd
Of its unhallow'd rivals. Wond'rous God,
Tender and good to all which thou hast made,
Succour the blossom and the forward bud—
The scarce and fearful daisy, ill disclos'd
And couching low, veiling its tender eye
With fingers dipp'd in crimson—the fresh leaf
That decks the gooseberry's vindictive branch,
And elder's thornless bough—the ruddy ear
Of woodbine eager to be gay, his flow'r
Determin'd soon about the ling'ring oak
To wind in shame of the slow Spring's delay.
Succour the lilac, whose prolific bud
Betrays its purple symptom, promise sweet

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Of many a spike to be unfolded soon,
And nod majestic on the brow of May.
Thou fickle season, let thy morning smile
To noon continue, and from noon to night.
Let not the cloud that lifts its pillowy head
Above the blue horizon, and ere long
Shall shew its sable waist and trailing skirt,
Curtain thy orb, and the protruded gem
Bruise with its dancing hailstone. If the show'r
Fall frequent, fall it kind, and not severe,
And fall to meliorate the thirsty soil
Of field and garden, that thy genial beam
May hatch the blade of ev'ry seed unseen.
So shall the farmer bless thee—so, his dame,
Who spreads to bleach upon the village green
Her home-spun sheeting, recent from the loom—
So, the blithe gard'ner, often with his spade
Seen early deep-upturning the rich soil,
Harrowing often and disposing smooth
Its mellow surface with the fine-tooth'd rake,
Often his scythe heard whetting ere the dawn,
And shaving smooth the sward, or seen at noon

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Trampling his border with assiduous heel.

If show'r, attended by the gale, descend,
Grateful the contrast of imperious day
Chasing indignant the dishevell'd cloud,
And still transparent night, with peerless gems
Studding the tranquil canopy of heaven.

From yon uplifted summit, when the sun
Of March, high-mounted, wears a moody smile,
Indulgent only to these winnow'd brows,
What time the partial storm in sullen pomp
Sails o'er the prostrate weald, let me look down
And see the murky cloud prone deluge shed,
And ev'ry town and steeple, dim-discern'd,
Curtain in gloom terrific. At such time,
What if the lightning bolt, long laid aside,
Amid the grim procession chance to gleam,
And thunder, surly to be rous'd so soon,
Mutter reluctant from his stormy couch?
It shall but solemn render the slow march
Of the dark tempest, through its gloomy brows
Frowning meridian night, and wake no dread,
No wish of flight, nor sense of peril here.

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No! I shall eye it safely as it steals
In gloomy state away, and leaves behind
The freshen'd landscape leisurely dismiss'd.
Lo! in the glowing east the cloud sublime
Lifting its arduous and illumin'd head
High above highest earth, a pile superb
Of vapour, wrapping in its smoky skirts
Heav'n's everduring threshold, and the beam
Of day's clear orb resplendent from its folds
Reflecting glorious. With the falling sun
Slow sinks the pomp away, and while his orb
In flaky redness sets, and fills the west
With fiery fragments of disparted cloud,
The last-apparent summit of the storm
The ruddy hue imbibes, and sanguine glows;
Till, day withdrawn and the vex'd ether hush'd,
The tempest all subsides and dies away,
And the pure heav'n displays an ardent moon
Swimming self-balanc'd through the blue profound.

On this commanding summit let me stand,
To see the vernal equinoctial orb
Fresh from his chambers in the deep ascend.

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Arise, bright leader of the beauteous year,
Sweep thy long fingers o'er the shadowy vale,
And smite the hill-tops. Nature at thy soft
Reviving touch with concord exquisite
Shall to her center vibrate. Total earth
Shall ring sweet unison from hill and dale.
My bosom, like the fabled lyre of old
Memnonian, or the harp that wooes the breeze,
Shall sing with ecstasy, and pour around
Spontaneous sweet effusion, mellow verse,
Ode best expressive of the grateful soul.
Here let me stand, and o'er the level weald,
That, like a spacious chart, outstretch'd beneath
Lies chequer'd, cast an aching eye, to mark
Each well-known object in the misty skirt
Of the long-drawn perspective. Seen from hence
The budding wood a russet hue assumes,
And, as the gem protrudes, the social group
Of elms and oaks that herd upon the lawn
(Shelter affording to the yeaning flock)
Seem pencil'd softer on the vale below.
The paintress Nature with reviving green

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Colours her tender landscape, down and mead,
A deeper tinge upon the long-sown field
Spreading with equal hand, intending soon
Like grace and beauty for the tardier spot.

Now yields the flock to the bard's curious eye
Peculiar pleasures. Often let me mark
The sullen ewe's authoritative stamp
Where'er the sheep-dog passes. Let me smile
At her deluded sense, what time her lamb,
By the bleak season slain, his welted coat
Yields to the flayer, and the ravish'd twin
Of some fond mother in the coarse disguise
Appears loose-coated, and usurps his dug.
Dull fool, how ill perceives thy stupid eye
The palpable imposture! Let me hear
The morning uproar of the fleecy folk,
What time, vociferous, their tardy march
With baying curs impatient their rude lord
To the green pasture urges. Loud enquires
The bleating mother for her sunder'd lamb,
As loud complaining for his mother lost.
With quick infallible perception, she,

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Amid the mingled outcry, hears distinct
His slender shrill entreaty. He remote,
With nicety that shames our grosser sense,
Her voice acknowledges, and through the crowd
Winds his insulted way. She, provident,
Her milky treasures for his lip reserves,
Butting intruders with a frown away.
At length he finds her, and with bended knees,
Emblem of innocence and filial grace,
His plenteous meal receives, and bleats no more

Now as I walk and slumber by the dyke,
Whene'er the mid-day sun with pow'rful beam
Plays full upon the bank, 'mid the fresh tops
Of nettle fast reviving, or green shoots
Of parsley welcome at the warren side,
Or sear grass unconsum'd, or prickly goss,
Wriggles the viper and the basking eft,
Or spotted snake innocuous, snapping short
The thread of meditation, as they glide,
With whisper not unwelcome. At the door
Enters the flesh-fly, and with cheerful hum
Travels the house interior. On the pane

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Thumps he and buzzes, the resounding hall
Travels again, and with a bounce departs;
Grateful remembrance leaving on the mind
Of still enjoyment in the musing hour
Of summer's drowsy noon, and pleasing thought
Oft interrupted by his brisk career.

If now I journey, often at my side
Let me the blue-bell'd hyacinth behold,
The silver anemóne of the wood,
And golden primrose, intermingled well.
Let ev'ry bank with rosy tufts be fring'd;
Be ev'ry corn-field carpeted anew
In recent herbage, ev'ry hillock crown'd,
And ev'ry valley gracefully besprent
With drooping cowslip, ev'ry marshy dell
With sumptuous caltha lin'd, and ev'ry down
Sow'd with innumerable daisy, white
Or ting'd with crimson at each finger's tip.
Let delicate archangel, white as snow,
In ev'ry nook appear, tempting the hand
Of city botanist, or village boy
Who plucks the leaf and blossom from its stem,

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Fearless of smart, and the quadrangled tube
Into a pipe monotonous converts;
A wailing pipe, whose miserable note
Resembles most the viol's woeful scream
By the hard hand of inexperience scrap'd,
Or hautboy's harsher squall, that racks the sense,
And tortures patience till she scarce endures.
Not such that awfuller Archangel trump
Which sang at Sinai's mount, and shook the host
Of prostrate Israel with excessive awe:
Nor such that future tube, which death dethron'd
Shall hear ill-pleas'd, and harass man no more,
Pris'ner for ever in the seal'd abyss.

Neat lies the surface of the weedless field,
Where springs the bean-top martially dispos'd
File within file, a lusty brotherhood,
Or shoots more tender in continuous rank
The pea-plant ill-supported, soon to fall
And with weak elbow lean upon the ground,
Save where the gard'ner with indulgent hand
Plants in her neighbourhood the leafless stake:
There with glad tendril to the branchy staff

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She clings, and with ambitious finger climbs
To wave her limber blossoms high in air.

Now moves again, but with a sluggard's pace,
Not well awake, the plough. The harness'd team
Moves slowly forward, and not seldom stays,
Impeded sore by congregated clods.
The rooky tribe attend, and, perch'd at hand,
Watch the moist furrow with superior eye,
And brisk alight, upon the worm to prey,
Or sweeter grub unhous'd. Frequently there
Loiters, a grey-coat pensioner, the mew,
(His treasury the main left far behind,)
And shares the spoil terrene, with outstretch'd wing
The ploughman's clodded heel pursuing close,
And settling timorous. At length arrives
The hour of rest long look'd for, and the team
Of wearied steers, from the bright share releas'd,
Leave in the midst of the fresh field upturn'd
The plough recumbent, and with hurried pace
March cheerful homeward. Expedition clanks
The heavy chain which knits them pair to pair,
And oft the forward ox, impatient, drags

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The lingerer behind, his brawny neck
Straining with pressure of the cumbrous yoke.

Forth goes the weeding dame, her daily task
To travel the green wheat-field, ancle-deep
In the fresh blade of harvest yet remote.
Now with exerted implement she checks
The growth of noisome weeds, to toil averse,
An animal gregarious, fond of talk.
Lo! where the gossipping banditti stand
Amid field idle all, and all alike
With shrill voice prating, fluent as the pye.
Far off let me the noisy group behold,
Nothing molested by their loud harangue,
And think it well to see the fertile field
By their red tunics peopled, and the frock
Of the white husbandman that ploughs hard by,
Or guides the harrow team, or flings the grain
At ev'ry footstep with exerted arm
Over the yawning furrow. Never more
Pleases the rural landscape, than when man,
Drawn by the vernal sunbeam from his cell,
The needful culture of the field renews.

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Still of the frozen drift it somewhere swept
Savours the breeze of morn, and makes the cheek
Of beauty kindle with its keen salute.
But grateful is the mild and genial noon,
Which, bursting unexpected from the cloud,
Dispels the sullen vapour that obscur'd
And quench'd the matin beam, and the sharp gale,
Which tasted of the ling'ring snows it pass'd
In some cold arctic realm remote, bids hush.
How delicate the foretaste yielded then
Of Summer yet withheld! and how delights
The ravish'd ear to listen to the sound
Of warblers numberless! Appears it not
As if harmonious exhalation sprung,
Soon as the cheering sunbeam smote the field,
From earth's transported bosom, and diffus'd
Its sweet vibrations through the trembling air?
No longer now assembles as of late,
Gregarious only in the winter hour,
Bird of the sky baptiz'd, the speckled lark.
Oft o'er the plain inert or fallow then
In flight circuitous the nimble flock

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Swam eddying, or with sudden wheel revers'd
Shew'd their transparent pinions to the sun.
Now, earnest as of yore with dewy plumes
To touch the roof of heav'n, in the first beam
Of the clear orb apparent, with a spring
Mounts the sweet warbler, and with upward flight,
And throat that struggles to make sweeter still
Exquisite anthem, to the clouds ascends.
The eye that sees him with strain'd vision soars
To mark him quiv'ring in the skies above;
Nor seldom, his ascension not observ'd,
Looks with vain scrutiny the dappled air,
Nor finds, invisible, the vocal spirit
Which fills with ravishment the deep of heaven,
And chants aerial melody unseen.

Be still, thou chilly breeze, and let the beam
Of noon refulgent o'er the mellow field
Shed summer premature. Let the slow team
Of steers reluctant pressing on the yoke,
With down-sunk forehead and depending tongue,
With winding shoulders and slow-pacing foot,
Pant as it ploughs along the mountain side

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The furrow, turning and returning still.
Let him that steers the glitt'ring share be warm,
And often pause at the transparent pool,
His doff'd brim dipping, and the gelid lymph,
Which trickles round it to his thirsty lip,
Imbibing eagerly. Let him that stalks,
And from the seedlip scatters wide around
The fruitful grain, peel'd of his frock appear,
White o'er the furrows marching. White as he
Follow the pilot of the harrow-team,
Crumbling the surface, and concealing well
Under its levell'd wave the buried seed.
Alike divested, o'er the finish'd field,
With sleeve expos'd and long resounding whip,
Let the rude boy, of his employment proud,
Guide the revolving axis. Gentle Heaven,
Yield meet indulgence to the yeaning flock
Which spreads the green enclosure, and the lamb
Cherish propitious, whether he repose,
Or feebly totter upon feet untried,
Or gambol sprightly round the grazing ewes,
Soon lost, and soon enquiring for his dam,

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Who bleats and mumbles at his slender call.
Yield to the trembling calf, inactive yet,
And the faint mother lowing at his side
Internal fond concern, their due support.

How welcome to the sight, when first discern'd
The vernal swallow, skimming with swift wing
The windy mead, or floating high in air
If noon be calm, or twitt'ring lonely song
Perch'd on the brink of chimney-throat profound!
How sweetly falls it on th' attentive ear,
Reviving memory of summers past,
And many a sweet and pleasurable thought
Of sultry days enjoy'd and mus'd away
Beneath the garden shade, while thus she sang
And warbled freely from her household nest!

Behold again with saffron wing superb
The giddy butterfly. Releas'd at length
From his warm winter cell, he mounts on high,
No longer reptile, but endued with plumes,
And through the blue air wanders; pert alights,
And seems to sleep, but from the treach'rous hand
Snatches his beauties suddenly away,

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And zig-zag dances o'er the flow'ry dell.
Across the lawn he flies. His sumptuous wing
Provokes attention in the playful child,
Who gallops brisk his not unruly cane
Over the daisies at his parent's door,
Diverting and diverted. With fix'd eye
The settled bird he marks, with eager hand
Grasps at the prize, but covets it in vain,
Gives chace impetuous, but unable soon
To reach the golden flutterer, aloft
Flying still free, with final fond attempt
Tosses his cap in air, and strives no more.
So hunts the fast philosopher his fly,
The gilded fugitive o'er hedge and dyke
Insane pursuing with a child's career.
'Twere well if he too fail'd, and spread his net
And toss'd his cap in vain, and seldom doom'd
The beauteous captive to a ling'ring death.
But oft with base delight his murd'rous hand
Impales the sufferer, and heats the dart
Which pierc'd its mail with ineffectual wound,
By little and by little quenching life,

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Lest the quick hand of mercy discompose
And mar the beauty of its burnish'd coat.
Lively abhorrence stigmatize the deed.
It is enough for poets to detain
The lovely stranger, till the curious eye
Has well survey'd its graces, and ador'd
The power that cloth'd it in attire so gay.
Such inquisition made, to the free wing
Give we the pris'ner, liberty restore,
Dismiss and thank him, and enjoy the thought
That some remote similitude is our's
Of Him who all things made, and all preserves,
Sparing the meanest, and oppressing none.

Hatch'd by the sunbeam from contiguous cells
Around the slender apple-twig combin'd
In circuit orderly, egg glued to egg,
Issue the caterpillar swarm minute.
There left, oviparous, her half-born brood,
Ere summer clos'd, the parent; left, and died.
There have they still endur'd, and still surviv'd
Sharp winter's tyranny; the bitter frost,
That slew the myrtle and the lasting leaf

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Of the screen'd laurel chang'd, no death to them.
Now busily conven'd, upon the bud
That crowns their genial branch they feast sublime,
And spread their muslin canopy around,
Pavilion'd richer than the proudest king.
The spinster caterpillar ties aloft,
Fine as the gossamer, his slender cord
To his lov'd cradle the recov'ring elm,
And, playfully suspended, rocks and whirls,
And, ere his wings are granted, lives in air.
So dangles o'er the brook, depending low,
The spider artist, till propitious breeze
Buoy him athwart the stream. From shore to shore
He fastens then his horizontal thread,
Sufficient bridge, and, traversing alert,
His fine-spun radii flings from side to side,
Shapes his concentric circles without art,
And, all accomplish'd, couches in the midst,
Himself the center of his flimsy toils,
So spins the British mariner his shrouds,
Nor spins them with less art, what time he fits
To the vast thunder-bark her woven wings.

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Now let the painter poet walk abroad.
At ev'ry turn shall his attentive eye
Some lovely feature of reviving prime
Observe delighted. The green springing blade
Of wheat, impatient of the long control
Of ling'ring frost, spite of the prancing lamb
And mumbling ewe that check its prosp'rous growth,
Waves upon ev'ry hill. From ev'ry vale,
With verdure scarce inferior, smiles remote
The herb reserv'd, and not to be impair'd
By the voracious grazer's hungry tooth,
Ere it has yielded to the herdsman's scythe
The precious burden of the fragrant rick.
The orchard floor, with sumptuous carpet spread,
Shames the flow branch that only buds above.
The hedge-row feels the scandal of delay,
And, here and there, along the sunny dyke,
The pendent catkin hangs and flowery gull.
Provok'd at their reproach, the darker thorn
Awakes, and sprinkles his vindictive branch,
Not to be touch'd in vain, with bloom of snow.
Their tender leaf the woodbine and the quick

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Put softly forth. The cerasus sublime
Decks with few blossoms cautiously display'd
The cottage garden-plot, while bold beneath
The gooseberry unfolds an ample leaf,
And hides in foliage her ten thousand swords.

Sweet holiday of nature, eldest born
Of the fair train of laughter-loving May,
Come with thy garland tripping debonair,
Dance to the music of the woodland choir,
And lead thy lovely sisterhood along
In flowery fantastic chace. Bear each,
Lightly depending from her careless arm,
The mingled basket of ten thousand hues,
Blossoms of ev'ry odour, and with hand
Profusely bounteous strew them in the vale,
Or crown the mountain with their fragrant wreath.
Come not, as once I met thee, wrapt in clouds
Down-stooping awful, and with no vain threat
Charg'd, when thy furious sulphur-breathing steeds,
By lightning lash'd, gallop'd with thund'ring hoofs
The hollow amphitheatre of heav'n,
Till ether roar'd above, and earth beneath

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Quak'd at the hurry of thy sultry wheels.
Yet come not showerless, but let thy brief
And transitory cloud oft intercept
The glowing day-beam, and with silken sound
Dispense its gentle fertilizing dews
Upon the thankful champain. Thus refresh'd,
Earth shall the bridal suit of youth put on,
And hill and valley, in the various hues
Of mingled verdure dress'd, seem to the sight
A lovely paradise, where all is fresh,
All fair and flourishing, and nothing fear.

How elegant yon furze-hill cloth'd in gold!
Though distant, the soft undulating breeze,
That sweeps its flow'rs and after laves the cheek,
Bears to the nostril of its faint perfume
Sufficient to subdue and drowse the sense,
Nor make it wish for more. Behold at hand
Presage delightful of the beauteous year;
The bud, no longer cautious, from the bough
Drops its small winter tunic, and bestrews
With flaky show'r the gravell'd path beneath.

Now sends the garden all its glories forth,

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With many a nodding pyramid of flowers,
Or pale or purple-hued, her varnish'd leaf
The lilac decks. Laburnum at her side
Weeps gold, sweet mourner! From behind uprears,
And tosses high in air her frothy globes,
Her unsubstantial roses, light as foam
Of new milk bubbling in the cow-herd's pail,
The beauteous guelder shrub. Along the wall
Displays the fruit-tree its superbest bloom.
The glorious shew fond appetite surveys,
And dreams of special apricots unborn,
Of the fine-flavour'd nect'rine, juicy gage,
Cherry delicious, plum with purple coat,
Sweet pear and mellow apple, luscious fig,
And the well-relish'd orb of autumn peach,
Which almost melts or e'er it reach the lip.

Where'er the cherry spreads its flowery tufts,
'Tis pleasure to survey the snowy pomp,
And pause in contemplation of the hum
Of mingled bees industrious, that invade
And rifle in succession ev'ry flower;
Some large, and gifted with the voice profound

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Of mellow bass, some with the loftier pipe
Of tenor soft, of small soprano some,
That fancy oft may deem she hears distinct
The sweet coincidence of fellow tones
Producing harmony's full chord divine.
Where the meek sycamore, of nothing vain,
Covers with foliage its depending flowers,
The same harmonious murmur shall be heard;
Which feeds delay and gratifies repose
Beneath his singing bough, from earliest morn
To sultry noon, from noon to latest eve.
What wonder that the hind his evening tube
Of sweet Virginian fragrance at his door
Delights to kindle, if thy drowsy branch
His bench o'ershadow? Luxury it is
Here to be stationary, or where'er
Around the honied foliage of the lime
The bee by day and chafer hums at eve,
Roaring profound and buzzing as it 'lights
To sup upon the dewy fragrant leaf.

O lovely season! when on ev'ry bough
The recent equipage of beauty glows

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Divine, and even in the bush appears
The manifested God. How sweet to sense,
How delicate the breeze that lades its wings
With odours from the hawthorn! To the spot
Where dwells the sweet allurer, decking late
Her crowded foliage with abundant flow'rs,
Turns the fond eye to gaze, and, smit with love,
Marks here the swelling bough's expanded bloom,
And there a host of beauties yet unborn,
Globules unnumber'd the prolific branch
Besetting thick around, ere long to unfold
Their milky petals to th' enamour'd bee.

Hard by, another peerless beauty blooms.
Behold the blushing crab, and view elate
Her sanguine blossoms intermingled well
With crimson buds unblown, and her red arm,
To the less rubicund espalier's branch
Or maiden's orchard's bough of snow, prefer.
Such is the rural apple; emblem fair
Of nature's sweet uneducated maid,
Whose glowing cheek, by city air unbleach'd,
The bloom of health and loveliness retains.

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No lily fairer in attire, no rose
More delicately blushing, lo! she comes,
From the religious altar just dismiss'd
With finger conscious of the ring it wears,
A bride consorted. Native modesty
Down-weighs her drooping eyelid to the ground,
And rich confusion glows upon her cheek.
The village spinsters shower on her head
And strew before her the full lap of flowers,
Not without caution cull'd, lest aught unfair,
Offensive aught, or aught of jealous hue,
Or unprolific, ill express the hope
Of joy and peace and fertile days to come.
Say now, which most excels, the sanguine flower
Of the wild apple that adorns its bough,
Or glowing rose of her disorder'd cheek?
And say, on which would thy transported heart
Bestow in preference the smile or kiss?

Now ev'ry feather'd tenant of the grove
Labours his sweetest song, studious to cheer
His busy mate, a pensive architect,
That builds the woven wonder of the nest,

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Laps in a gentle cradle lin'd with down
Her future brood, or vigilant expects
Day after day the pregnant egg to live,
And supplicate provision, not in vain.
Such care maternal needs the sweet relief
Of labour'd song, and sometimes, parent Sir,
The free assistance of a silent beak.
Enamour'd songsters, grateful is the task,
While you from ev'ry brake the rising orb
With sweet hosanna welcome, to admire
And mark the several energies, that fill
Your morning anthem of spontaneous praise.
The sparrow couple with industrious bill
The scatter'd straw collect, contriving snug
Under the cottage eave or low-roof'd barn
Their genial couch. More than mere chirpers now,
They watch the floating feather as it flies,
Eye-serve the goose for his superfluous down,
Or dressing fowl, or self-adorning drake,
And bear triumphant the loose spoil away.
Nor these alone are busy. Feathery pairs,
Innumerable as the kindling bud,

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Of wedded cares partake, and build the nest,
And hopes divide, with constancy that shames
Man's brittle contract and infirm regard.
Lo! to the steeple with alternate wing
Bears expeditious his long twig the daw,
Nor seldom struggles with his awkward freight,
And drops it, startled by the hooting boy
That shouts beneath. The solitary dove,
Which loves the still dilapidated tower
Of desert castle, or the time-cleft arch
Of ancient chantry, whose unshelter'd shafts
Ivy in pity clothes, and verdant moss
Crowns in respect his weather-beaten head,
With frequent wing alighting in the field
Bears the loose stubble thence, and builds on high
Her bed unseen, beyond the pilferer's reach.
His airy nurs'ry in the neighb'ring elm
Constructs the social rook, and makes the grove
That girds the crumbling edifice around,
And ev'ry angle of its ruin'd pile,
With the bass note of his harsh love resound.

Tell me, philosopher, in what sage school

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Of perfect wisdom were the feathery folk
Taught to diversify and labour each
The several nest of his peculiar race?
Where learn'd the sloven sparrow, little wise
Or little studious to excel, his art
Inferior, the maternal cell to thatch?
Whence drew the marten his superior skill
To knead and temper, mason-like, the slime
Of street or stagnant pool, and build aloft
Beneath the cornice brink or shady porch
His snug depending couch, on nothing hung,
Founded in air, and finish'd with a neat
Convenient aperture, from whence he bolts
Sudden, and whither brisk returns, with mouth
Fill'd for his hiant offspring? Whence receiv'd
The daw his lesson, or the rook, the one
Within the lonely unfrequented tower
Weaving his basket of unnumber'd twigs,
The other on the topmost elm sublime
His wicker cradle fixing, to be rock'd
By the rude nurse adversity's strong gale?
Whence knew the sprightly golden-pinion'd finch,

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Of ruddy countenance, and ivory beak,
And coat of sleekest umber, his fond art
To line with locks and pave with neatest love
The verdant nest of interwoven moss,
Fast to the blushing apple's forked branch
Amid the blossoms of the codlin tied?
Thou prying school-boy, spare the neat design,
And think of Him whose all-protecting hand
Secretes the nestling with innumerous leaves,
And with abundant foliage makes obscure,
And to the sight impervious, branches erst
Easily pierc'd, or by the solar ray,
Or beam of human eye, or arrowy gale,
Dark and impenetrable now to all.
Think of His mercy that protects the nest;
And, kind to all, with more especial love
The linnet spare and finch of crimson face,
That twitter each the none-offending song
Of quiet prettiness, and pluck the down
Of the prolific thistle for their bread.
Not to destroy be earnest, but to save.
Gentle thy heart, till it observe ill-pleas'd

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Yon feathery spoils of the sweet songster slain,
And in the warm and sunny nook devour'd
By the swift falcon. Let thy curse reprove
The tyrant soaring in the clouds above
(An emblem apt of thy severer self)
With gyrous scrutiny the furze-clad hill
Closely surveying as he winds along,
Or in mid ether hovering, till his eye
Some fascinated warbler fix below,
And he to seize him from his airy watch
Drop sudden, and not always drop in vain.

What time the sun has from the west withdrawn
The various hues that grac'd his cloudy fall—
When the recumbent ruminating fold
Greets with peculiar odour the fond sense
Of the lone wand'rer—when the recent leaf
Of clover 'gins to sleep, and, white with dew,
Closes its tender triple-finger'd palm
Till morning dawn afresh—when the moon wears
Nor hood nor veil, nor looks with cold regard
Through the fine lawn of intervening cloud,
But lifts a fair round visage o'er the vale,

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And smiles affection which no bard can paint,
No painter with poetic pencil sing—
When the dark cloud that couches in the west
Seems to imbibe the last pale beam of eve,
Absorbing in its dun and gloomy folds
The feeble residue of dying day—
Is it not pleasure, with unbended mind
To muse within or meditate abroad,
While either hand in the warm bosom sleeps,
And either foot falls feebly on the floor,
Or shaven sward, or stone that paves the path
Of village footway winding to the church?
'Twere passing pleasure, if to man alone
That hour were grateful: but with like desire
The dusky holiday of thick'ning night
Enjoys the chuckling partridge, the still mouse,
The rabbit foraging, the feeding hare,
The nightingale that warbles from the thorn,
And twilight-loving solitary owl,
That skims the meadow, hovers, drops, her prey
Seizes, and screeching to her tower returns.
Her woolly little ones there hiss on high,

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And there who will may seek them, but who dares
Must 'bide the keen magnanimous rebuff
Of irritated love, and quick descend,
By the maternal talon not in vain
Insulted, baffled, scar'd, and put to flight.
'Tis pleasant in this peaceful serious hour
To tread the silent sward that wraps the dead,
Once our companions in the cheerful walks
Of acceptable life, the same ere long
In the dark chambers of profound repose.
All have their kindred here, and I have mine.
Yes, my sweet Isabel, and I have mine.
To die—what is it but to sleep and sleep,
Nor feel the weariness of dark delay
Through the long night of time, and nothing know
Of intervening centuries elaps'd,
When thy sweet morn, Eternity, begins?
Or else—what is it but a welcome change
From worse to better, from a world of pain
To one where flesh at least can nothing feel,
And pain and pleasure have no equal sway?
What is it but to meet ten thousand friends,

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Whose earthly race was finish'd ere our own,
And be well welcome, where the timorous foot
Fear'd to intrude, and whence no foot returns?
To me what were it but the happier lot
To find my long-lost Isabel, and shed
(If tears of joy are shed where tears of grief
Fall never, and immortal angels weep
At bliss excessive) joy's profusest show'r:
To tell her what was felt, and what was sung,
When cruel death unsparing from my sight
Pluck'd her away, and wafted her pure spirit
Whither no soul could tell?—But hush! my heart,
Lest sorrow burst her cicatrice anew,
And painful thought, which saddens my slow step,
Disperse the pleasures of this tranquil hour.

Place of my birth, how many are the sounds,
Which, peaceful as thou art, thy vernal morn,
Ere yet I rise, improve! Loud lows the calf,
Loud bleats the lamb, and the responsive cock
His kind attentions with transition quick
Duly performs—his open-throated squall,
That bids his wives and little-ones beware,

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Oft as the falcon or the dove appears—
His chuckle of affection to his dames—
The shuffle of his wing, on this side now,
Now exercis'd on that, with low-bow'd head,
And eye attentive to the fair he courts—
His croak of sage composure—his brisk call,
That summons to the huswife's scatter'd grain—
His sympathizing clamour o'er the nest—
His loud what what of wonder—and his shrill
Far-sounding challenge to his distant peer.
His feather'd concubine, meantime, aloud
Prates as she passes, or with silly pride
Cackles incontinent of new-laid eggs.
The sea-mew cries aloft with mingled tone;
And, plausible and silver-tongued, below
The drake his chattering seraglio leads
At the near pool to bathe. Anon is heard
The turkey gabbling at the whistler boy
With hollow throat profound, as 'mid his dames
He struts with swelling plumes, erected fan,
Low-curtsied wing, and countenance inflam'd.
The croaking raven his profounder note,

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Seated aloft upon the bending elm,
Harshly pronounces, or his sable mate
Hails as she soars on high with tenor soft,
Expressing well esteem and manly love.
How pleasant is it, as the break of day
Dawns, and the mountains lift their glowing heads
Into the golden sun-beam, to be rous'd
By the faint tinkling of the farmer's team,
His bells of ev'ry tone, a mingled peal
Remote and indistinct! Swell'd by approach
They jingle loud, and louder as they pass,
Then softly sing again, and die away.

The voluntary toils of morning past,
How pleasant to allow the studious mind
Convenient pause, and, ev'ry thought dismiss'd,
To ramble heedless o'er the bleating down,
'Mid thousand thousand children of the flock
Yet from the dam unwean'd, and flowery tufts
Ten thousand of rich furze, erewhile
By the fast fleecy nibbler neatly trimm'd,
And decorated now in robe superb,
Wrapping its branches in a blaze of gold,

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As if the Deity himself were there.
Be this my Horeb, often as mine eye,
Fatigued with poring o'er the page divine,
Thirsts for the sweet amusements of the hill;
Thirsts to survey the clear unbillowy deep,
Which lifts the distant vessel into heaven,
And the green vale, that, various in its hues,
E'en to the pebbly verge of the blue flood
Its cattle-sprent enclosures neatly spreads.
How delicate to bask upon the brink
Of yon high cliff, which overlooks the broad
And boundless ocean, at what time becalm'd
The war-ship near at hand with flaccid sail
Upon the polish'd bosom of the flood
Lies motionless! How pleasant, while the sun
Upon the foster'd shoulder tepid plays,
Inducing lassitude and faint repose,
To plant the telescope, and view distinct,
Submitted to the clear and curious eye,
The thunder-laden monster! Passing thence,
How sweet to cull from the meridian bank,
Which underlies the wood-invested hill,

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The recent, vigorous, protected flower
Of cowslip, harebell, violet, or rose
Of prime peculiar, and with full-fill'd hand
To steal upon the nightingale unseen,
Where'er she sings, invisible as wont,
And marvel at the wonder-working God,
Who in the compass of her slender breast
Such sweet exuberance of music lodg'd;
Such melody of loveliest plaintive power,
Whatever mood she choose, whether to weep
In feeble tone acute, or trill profound
Song self-consoling, or jug sweet content,
Or by ten thousand varied notes express
Liquid complacency and melting love!

No longer now stand dozing in the close,
Or ruminate recumbent, the sad herd,
But scatter'd wide upon the pastur'd hill,
Meadow, and marsh, people the rural scene,
And add new beauty wheresoe'er they graze.
Among them skips and races the wild calf,
And colt ingenuous, daring gentle touch,
And nothing conscious of his future toils.

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No grazer he, nor useful servant yet,
To help the team along, or bear his lord,
But time finds much to play, to frisk, to bound,
And gallop o'er the field, or idly bask
Stretch'd at his ease in the meridian beam.

How pleasant now upon the village stile
To rest well-wearied, while the jovial boy,
From school dismiss'd, upon the sunny green
Pitches his wicket, a stone-steadied hat,
And bowls exulting! Of encumbrance stript,
He for his maiden visage nothing fears,
But to the scorching day-beam, unconcern'd,
His cheek and bosom bares, nor aught regards
The freckled aspect, or the sun-burnt skin.
Piece of the nether millstone is his heart
Who marks ill-pleas'd the frolic of the child,
Or views the rural festival unmov'd.
Me it delights to overhear the dance
Upon the winnow'd floor of the void grange,
To pause at hand, and listen to the sound
Of the brisk viol challenging the foot,
And of the foot respondent, and to see

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The village maid and village hind alert
Pacing the giddy labyrinth of joy,
Each in the trim of holiday attir'd.
Nor pleases not, upon the social green,
The game laborious of the manly ball
Aim'd at the wicket, and its taper shanks
Levelling certain, but for hindrance quick
And resolute repulse of the strong blow,
That sends it thunder-struck aloft in air,
Or o'er the plain rebounding. Thou hast charms,
Rural festivity, not soon surpass'd,
Compare thee, as we may, with sport polite,
The neat amusement fashion qualifies,
Till nice refinement sits without disdain
Spectatress of the scene. Never more keen
Their liveliest ecstasy, than when, for health
To George restor'd, illumination's lamp
Was freely kindled, and the rural throng
From ev'ry door conven'd, along the street
Mingled in loyalty's triumphant maze.
Then pipe and viol felt alone fatigue,
While, nothing wearied, they with foot alert

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The blazing window's artificial day
Down danc'd, the fretted cupola of heaven
Their spacious ball-room, their assembler God.

'Tis sport itself to see the cheerful lamb
Skip in the field, and lead the wanton race
In the soft sunshine of departing day.
'Tis pleasure to survey the couching flock,
When ev'ry mother ruminates apart,
Recumbent in the dusk, and ev'ry son,
Sportful no longer, and his bleating hush'd,
Reclines expectant of the dewy night
Fast by his chewing dam. And pleasure 'tis
To see the gracious moon prevail aloft,
While the nocturnal curlew greets the ear
With sweet contented pipe, foreboding calm.

What transport is it, when awaking day
Its rosy eyelid lifts, to hear the sound
Of mower whetting his neglected scythe,
To hear his wide and double-handed sweep
Shear the reluctant herbage from the field,
Disposing well in swath succeeding swath
The fragrant burden, which his dewy blade

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Severs with ease and repetition keen
From the luxuriant mead! How neat appears,
Shorn of its beard promiss, the tender sward!
How sweet the bean-field now, in blossoms cloth'd,
With, here and there, a well-supported stem
Of pea that overtops the scene, and waves
The healthy banner of its crimson flower
High in the liberal air; with royal ease,
And condescension graceful, to the gale
Still bowing. The spent orchard's bough its bloom
Retains no longer. Ravish'd by the breeze,
Its drifted petal mounts and floats on high,
Or on the musing poet softly sheds
The grateful show'r of spring's peculiar snow;
As, thoughtful, he surveys and strives to paint
Earth green beneath, and ether blue above,
And the progressive cloud that creeps between,
Trailing its fleece, to niveous fairness bleach'd,
'Cross the cerulean temple, the clear dome
Of heaven sublime; where sits enthron'd on high
The worshipp'd Godhead, while all nations meet
And thinly people the vast aisle below.

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How sweet the pleasure when the muffled orb
Unseen has journey'd all the livelong day,
And only here and there by chance display'd
A sloping sidelong beam, to see it sink
Into a clear horizon—to observe
The cloud-skirt far inflam'd, till its bright disc,
At length apparent, swells into a drop
Of purest bullion, cooling ere it falls!
Lo! now, a globe complete, the crimson ball,
Shorn of its lustre, of the shadowy earth
Takes its last farewel. The marsh-loving gnat
Swarms in its mellow mitigated ray
Along the stagnant dyke, or bank of Ouse
Slow moving seaward, or more speedy brook,
Or dances o'er the maid who singing fills
Her brimmer pail from the cud-chewing cow,
Or o'er the musing loiterer aloft
Hums insignificant. Now with slow step
Long let me ramble in the fragrant shade
Of the dark winding lane, whose powder'd thorn
On either hand the hollow shadow'd way

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Borders impenetrable, save where gate,
Rude stile, or ill-heal'd gap, a transient glimpse
Yield of sweet landscape, village church and farm,
Or cottage snug beneath o'erhanging elms,
Or distant hill, or wood, or watery vale.
Or by the wood-side patient let me stand
While the mild orb of tranquil eve departs,
What time the moon, ascending as he sinks,
With aspect swoln and sickly scarce appears
In the dun-belted east, to hear the song
Of sylvan choristers, hosanna sweet,
Sweet hallelujah, to the King of kings
With free voice chanting. Above all delights
The wood-lark echoing, the nightingale
Gracing with plaintive pause her various strain,
The wild dove cooing diapason soft,
Language of love with elegance express'd,
And ouzle fluting with melodious pipe.
Deem not they praise the Deity amiss.
Pleas'd he their evening sacrifice accepts,
Thanksgiving pure, nor scorns it that it flows

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From hearts which know him not. Lo! as they sing,
With grace and beauty kindles the pale cheek
Of his wan minister the orb of night;
The smile of pleasure glows upon her brow;
She thanks them. Down the village path, releas'd
And pleas'd, I saunter homeward, and the hind
From distant toil returning pass rever'd;
Or cross the fresh green field to see the herd
Or weary team, dismiss'd, with eager mouths
Crop the young herbage; or attend the sound
Of village children playful, and the tone
Of pipe or viol, clumsily produc'd
By the rude finger of the self-taught clown.

To-morrow, with the bee of humble fame,
I rise to sing and trace the field anew.
He, ever busy, still from flow'r to flow'r,
Stooping their limber stems, the livelong day
Travels with audible melodious hum.
Though in ten thousand cells of varied shape
Her precious balm ingenious nature hides,
He knows them all, and readily unlocks

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The labiate blossom's close elastic lip,
To steal the dear ambrosia from within.
But why, sweet traveller, whose eager lip
Delights to visit the bloom-sprinkled branch,
And leave a kiss upon its ev'ry flower,
Why scorns it to salute the beauteous rose,
And greets his sweet bud never? Partial bird,
Has May alone thy love? and spreads in vain
June the sweet treasures of her flowery lap?
Why else untouch'd upon its thorny stem
Hangs the pale rose unfolding and the red?
These I contemn not, every bud that blows
Visiting daily with a bee's desire,
And serenading with impartial praise.
Musical wanderer, where'er thou stray'st,
How well does thy free toil resemble mine!
From flow'r to flow'r with unabated thirst
So roam I sedulous, hum as I pass,
And bear mellifluous treasure to my cell,
Song dropping honey, verse distilling balm.
Now still night silences both thee and me;

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And pleas'd that I have sung, place of my birth,
Thy pleasures multifarious, pass the sun
Through what fair sign it will, I drop the wing,
Hie to my grounded nest, and sing no more.

THE END.