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And well-tried virtues could alone infpire-
Witness a joy that thou haft doubled long.

Thou know'ft my praise of nature most fincere,
And that my raptures are not conjur'd up
To ferve occafions of poetic pomp,

But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft, upon yon eminence, our pace

Has flacken'd to a pause; and we have borne
The ruffling wind fcarce confcious that it blew,
While admiration, feeding at the eye,

And still unfated, dwelt upon the scene!
Thence with what pleasure have we just difcern'd
The diftant plough flow-moving and befide
His lab'ring team, that fwerv'd not from the
track,

The sturdy fwain diminish'd to a boy!
Here Ouse, flow winding through a level plain
Of spacious meads with cattle fprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along his finuous course
Delighted. There, faft rooted in their bank
Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms,
That screen the herdfman's folitary hut;
While, far beyond and overthwart the stream
That as with molten glass inlays the vale,
The floping land recedes into the clouds ;
Difplaying on its varied fide, the grace

Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r,
Tall fpire, from which the found of chearful bells

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Juft undulates upon the lift'ning ear!

Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.
Scenes must be beautiful which daily view'd
Please daily, and whofe novelty furvives
Long knowledge and the fcrutiny of years.
Praise juftly due to those that I defcribe.
Nor rural fights alone, but rural founds
Exhilarate the fpirit, and reftore

The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds
That sweep the skirt of fome far-fpreading wood
Of ancient growth, make mufic not unlike
The dafh of ocean on his winding fhore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;
Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves faft flutt'ring, all at once.
Nor lefs compofure waits upon the roar
Of diftant floods, or on the fofter voice
Of neighb'ring 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 fweet founds,
But animated Nature sweeter ftill,

To footh and fatisfy the human ear.

Ten thoufand warblers chear the day, and one,

The live-long night: nor thefe alone, whofe

notes

Nice

Nice-finger'd art must emulate in vain,
But cawing rooks, and kites that fwim fublime
In still repeated circles, screaming loud;
The jay, the pie, and ev'n the boding owl
That hails the rifing moon, have charms for m
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 steps the man, an emblem of myself,
More delicate his tim'rous mate retires.

When Winter foaks the fields, and female feet
Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,
Or ford the rivulets, are beft at home,
The task of new discov'ries falls on me.

At fuch a season and with fuch a charge

Once went I forth, and found, till then unknown,
A cottage, whither oft we fince 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; fo thick befet
With foliage of such dark redundant growth,
I call'd the low-roof'd lodge the peasant's neft.
And hidden as it is, and far remote
From fuch unpleafing founds as haunt the ear

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In village or in town, the bay of curs
Inceffant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,
And infants clam'rous whether pleas'd or pain'd,
Oft have I wish'd 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 still 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 bev'rage home
Far-fetch'd and little worth; nor feldom waits,
Dependent on the baker's punctual call,
To hear his creaking panniers at the door,
Angry and fad and his last cruft confumed.
So farewel envy of the peafant's neft.
If folitude make scant the means of life,
Society for me! thou seeming fweet,
Be ftill a pleasing object in my view,
My vifit ftill, but never mine abode.
Not distant far, at length a colonade
Invites us.
Monument of ancient tafte,
Now fcorn'd, but worthy of a better fate.
Our fathers knew the value of a screen
From fultry funs; and in their shaded walks
And long-protracted bow'rs, enjoy'd at noon

The

The gloom and coolness of declining day.
We bear our fhades about us; felf-depriv'd
Of other screen, the thin umbrella fpread,
And range an Indian waste without a tree.
Thanks to Benevolus-he fpares me yet
These chefnuts rang'd in corresponding lines,
And though himself fo polifh'd, ftill reprieves
The obfolete prolixity of fhade.

Defcending now (but cautious, left too faft)
A fudden steep, upon a rustic bridge,
We pafs a gulph, in which the willows dip
Their pendant boughs, ftooping as if to drink.
Hence ancle deep in mofs and flow'ry thyme
We mount again, and feel at ev'ry step
Our foot half funk in hillocks green and soft,
Rais'd 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 gain'd, behold the proud alcove
That crowns it! yet not all its pride fecures
The grand retreat from injuries imprefs'd
By rural carvers, who with knives deface

The pannels, leaving an obscure, rude name,

* John Courtney Throckmorton, Efq. of Weston Underwood.

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