And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;
Unnumbered branches waving in the blaft,
And all their leaves faft fluttering, all at once.
Nor lefs composure waits upon the roar
Of diftant floods, or on the fofter voice

Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that flip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grafs, that with a livelier green
Betrays the fecret of their filent course.
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
But animated nature sweeter ftill,

To footh and fatisfy the human ear.

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The live-long night: nor thefe alone, whofe notes Nice fingered art muft emulate in vain,

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim fublime
In ftill repeated circles, screaming loud,

The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl,
That hails the rifing moon, have charms for me.
Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,
Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,
And only there, please highly for their fake.

Peace to the artift, whose ingenious thought Devised the weather-house, that useful toy!

Fearless of humid air and gathering rains,

Forth fteps the man-an emblem of myself!
More delicate his timorous mate retires.
When Winter foaks the fields, and female feet,
Too weak to ftruggle with tenacious clay,
Or ford the rivulets, are beft at home,
The task of new discoveries falls on me.

At fuch a season, and with such a charge,
Once went I forth; and found, till then unknown,
A cottage, whither oft we fince repair :

"Tis perched upon the green-hill top, but close
Environed with a ring of branching elms,

That overhang the thatch, itfelf unseen
Peeps at the vale below; fo thick befet
With foliage of fuch dark redundant growth,
I called the low-roofed lodge the peasant's nest,
And, hidden as it is, and far remote

From fuch unpleafing founds, as haunt the ear
In village or in town, the bay of curs

Inceffant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,
And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained,
Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine.
Here, I have faid, at least I should poffefs
The poet's treasure, filence, and indulge
The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.
Vain thought! the dweller in that ftill retreat

Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.
Its elevated fcite forbids the wretch

To drink sweet waters of the crystal well;
He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,
And, heavy-laden, brings his beverage home,
Far fetched and little worth; nor feldom waits,
Dependant on the baker's punctual call,
To hear his creaking panniers at the door,
Angry and fad, and his laft cruft confumed.
So farewell envy of the peasant's nest!
If folitude make scant the means of life,
Society for me!-thou seeming fweet,
Be ftill a pleafing object in my view;
My vifit ftill, but never mine abode.

Not diftant far, a length of colonnade Invites us. Monument of ancient tafte, Now fcorned, but worthy of a better fate. Our fathers knew the value of a fcreen From fultry funs: and, in their shaded walks And long protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon The gloom and coolness of declining day. We bear our fhades about us; felf-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian wafte without a tree.

Thanks to Benevolus-he fpares me yet

These chefnuts ranged in correfponding lines;
And, though himself so polished, ftill reprieves
The obfolete prolixity of shade.

Defcending now (but cautious, left too faft)
A fudden steep, upon a ruftic bridge
We pass a gulph, in which the willows dip
Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.
Hence, ancle deep in mofs and flowery thyme,
We mount again, and feel at every step
Our foot half funk in hillocks green and soft,
Raised by the mole, the miner of the foil.
He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,
Disfigures earth: and, plotting in the dark,
Toils much to earn a monumental pile,
That may record the mischiefs he has done.

The fummit gained, behold the proud alcove
That crowns it! yet not all its pride fecures
The grand retreat from injuries impreffed
By rural carvers, who with knives deface
The pannels, leaving an obfcure, rude name

John Courtney Throckmorton, Efq. of Wefton Underwood,

In characters uncouth, and fpelt amifs.
So ftrong the zeal to immortalize himself
Beats in the breaft of man, that even a few

Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorred
Of blank oblivion, feem a glorious prize,
And even to a clown. Now roves the eye;
And, pofted on this speculative height,
Exults in its command. The sheep-fold here
Pours out its fleecy tenants over the glebe.
At first, progreffive as a stream, they seek
The middle field; but, fcattered by degrees,
Each to his choice, foon whiten all the land.
There from the fun-burnt hay-field homeward creeps
The loaded wain; while, lightened of its charge,
The wain that meets it paffes fwiftly by ;

The boorish driver leaning over his team
Vociferous, and impatient of delay.
Nor lefs attractive is the woodland scene,
Diverfified with trees of every growth,

Alike, yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks
Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine,
Within the twilight of their diftant shades;
There, loft behind a rifing ground, the wood
Seems funk, and shortened to its topmoft boughs.
No tree in all the grove but has its charms,
Though each its hue peculiar; paler fome,