Exhilarate the spirit, and restore
The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds, That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood Of ancient growth, make music not unlike The dash of Ocean on his winding shore, And lull the spirit, while they fill the mind ; Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast, And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In matted grass, that with a livelier green Betrays the secret of their silent course. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, But animated Nature sweeter still, To soothe and satisfy the human ear.
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The livelong night: nor these alone, whose notes Nice-finger'd Art must emulate in vain, But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud, The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl, That hails the rising 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 sake.
Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought Devised the weather-house, that useful toy! Fearless of humid air and gathering rains Forth steps the man-an emblem of myself; More delicate, his timorous mate retires. When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet,
Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, The task of new discoveries falls on me.
At such a season, and with such a charge, Once went I forth; and found, till then unknown, A cottage, whither oft we since repair :
'Tis perch'd upon the green hill top, but close Environ'd with a ring of branching elms, That overhang the thatch, itself, unseen, Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset With foliage of such dark redundant growth, I call'd the low-roof'd lodge the peasant's nest. And, hidden as it is, and far remote From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear In village or in town, the bay of curs Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, And infants clamorous whether pleased or pain'd, Oft have I wish'd the peaceful covert mine. Here, I have said, at least I should possess The Poet's treasure, silence, and indulge The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.
Its elevated site forbids the wretch
To drink sweet waters of the crystal well; He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch, And, heavy laden, brings his beverage home, Far fetch'd and little worth; nor seldom waits, Dependant on the baker's punctual call, To hear his creaking panniers at the door, Angry, and sad, and his last crust consumed. So farewell envy of the peasant's nest! If solitude make scant the means of life, Society for me!-thou seeming sweet,
Be still a pleasing object in my view; My visit still, but never mine abode. Not distant far, a length of colonnade Invites us. Monument of ancient taste, Now scorn'd, but worthy of a better fate. Our fathers knew the value of a screen From sultry suns: and, in their shaded walks And long protracted bowers, enjoy'd, at noon, The gloom and coolness of declining day. We bear our shades about us; self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree. Thanks to Benevolus*—he spares me yet These chesnuts ranged in corresponding lines; And, though himself so polish'd, still reprieves The obsolete prolixity of shade.
Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast) A sudden steep upon a rustic bridge, We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip Their pendant boughs, stooping as if to drink. Hence, ankle deep in moss and flowery thyme, We mount again, and feel at every step Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. He, not unlike the great ones of mankind, Disfigures earth and, plotting in the dark, Toils much to earn a monumental pile, That may record the mischiefs he has done.
The summit gain'd, behold the proud alcove That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures The grand retreat from injuries impress'd By rural carvers, who with knives deface
* John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq., of Weston Underwood.
The panels, leaving an obscure rude name, In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. So strong the zeal to immortalize himself Beats in the breast of man, that e'en a few, Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorr'd Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize,
And even to a clown. Now roves the eye;
And, posted on this speculative height, Exults in its command. The sheepfold here Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. At first, progressive as a stream, they seek The middle field; but, scatter'd by degrees, Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. There from the sunburnt hayfield homeward creeps The loaded wain; while, lighten'd of its charge, The wain that meets it passes swiftly by ; The boorish driver leaning o'er his team, Vociferous, and impatient of delay. Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, Diversified with trees of every growth,
Alike, yet various. Here the grey smooth trunks Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine Within the twilight of their distant shades; There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood Seems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs. No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, And of a wannish grey; the willow such, And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf, And ash, far-stretching his umbrageous arm; Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still, Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak. Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun, The maple, and the beech, of oily nuts Prolific, and the lime, at dewy eve Diffusing odours: nor unnoted pass The sycamore, capricious in attire,
Now green, now tawny, and, ere Autumn yet Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright. O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map Of hill and valley interposed between), The Ouse, dividing the well-water'd land,
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