Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks She sees him, and indulging the fond thought, Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf, Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way. JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748) A SNOW SCENE FROM WINTER - The keener tempests come: and fuming dun From all the livid east, or piercing north, Thick clouds ascend in whose capacious womb A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congealed. Heavy they roll their fleecy world along; And the sky saddens with the gathered storm. Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, 230 At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes 250 THE SHEEP-WASHING FROM SUMMER 380 Or rushing thence, in one diffusive band They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog Compelled, to where the mazy-running brook Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high, And that, fair-spreading in a pebbled shore. Urged to the giddy brink, much is the toil, The clamour much, of men, and boys, and dogs, Ere the soft, fearful people to the flood Commit their woolly sides. And oft the swain, On some impatient seizing, hurls them in: Emboldened then, nor, hesitating more, Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing wave, And panting labour to the farther shore. Repeated this, till deep the well-washed fleece Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt The trout is banished by the sordid stream, Heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow Slow move the harmless race; where, as they spread Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray, Inly disturbed, and wondering what this wild 390 Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints The country fill — and, tossed from rock to rock, Incessant bleatings run around the hills. At last, of snowy white, the gathered flocks Are in the wattled pen innumerous pressed, Head above head; and ranged in lusty rows The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears. The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores, With all her gay-drest maids attending round. One, chief, in gracious dignity enthroned, Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherd-king; While the glad circle round them yield their souls To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall. Meantime, their joyous task goes on apace: Some mingling stir the melted tar, and some, Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side, To stamp his master's cypher ready stand; Others the unwilling wether drag along; And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy Holds by the twisted horns the indignant ram. Behold where bound, and of its robe bereft, By needy man, that all-depending lord, How meek, how patient, the mild creature lies! What softness in its melancholy face, What dumb complaining innocence appears! Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the knife Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved; No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears, Who having now, to pay his annual care, Borrowed your fleece, to you a cumbrous load, Will send you bounding to your hills again. 400 410 420 161 The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze 171 The clouds consign their treasures to the fields; STORM IN HARVEST FROM AUTUMN Defeating oft the labours of the year, The sultry south collects a potent blast. At first, the groves are scarcely seen to stir Their trembling tops, and a still murmur runs Along the soft-inclining fields of corn; But as the aërial tempest fuller swells, And in one mighty stream, invisible, Immense, the whole excited atmosphere Impetuous rushes o'er the sounding world, Strained to the root, the stooping forest pours 320 A rustling shower of yet untimely leaves. High-beat, the circling mountains eddy in, From the bare wild, the dissipated storm, And send it in a torrent down the vale. Exposed, and naked, to its utmost rage, Through all the sea of harvest rolling round, The billowy plain floats wide; nor can evade, 329 Though pliant to the blast, its seizing force - 339 Of clamant children dear. Ye masters, then, 350 Makes your glass sparkle, and your sense rejoice! THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE 257 That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. 31 Joined to the prattle of the purling rills, Full in the passage of the vale, above, 40 As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood: And up the hills, on either side, a wood Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro, Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; And where this valley winded out below, The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was: Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer-sky. There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 50 Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh; But whate'er smackt of noyance, or unrest, Was far, far off expelled from this delicious While o'er the enfeebling lute his hand he flung, And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung: "Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold! See all but man with unearned pleasure gay: See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May! What youthful bride can equal her array? Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, 80 Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. "Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, The swarming songsters of the careless grove; Ten thousand throats that, from the flowering thorn, Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, Such grateful kindly raptures them emove! They neither plough, nor sow; ne, fit for flail, E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they drove; Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, 89 Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale. "Outcast of Nature, man! the wretched thrall Of bitter-dropping sweat, of sweltry pain, Of cares that eat away the heart with gall, And of the vices, an inhuman train, That all proceed from savage thirst of gain: For when hard-hearted Interest first began To poison earth, Astræa left the plain; Guile, Violence, and Murder, seized on man, And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, But work their woe and thy renown. Rule, Britannia, etc. To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine. Rule, Britannia, etc. The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; And manly hearts to guard the fair! Rule, Britannia, etc. JOHN DYER Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned, JOHN DYER (1700?-1758) FROM GRONGAR HILL Silent Nymph, with curious eye, Draw the landskip bright and strong; For the modest Muses made, So oft I have, the evening still, At the fountain of a rill, Sate upon a flowery bed, With my hand beneath my head; While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, Over mead, and over wood, From house to house, from hill to hill, "Till Contemplation had her fill. About his chequered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind, And groves, and grottoes where I lay, And vistas shooting beams of day: Wide and wider spreads the vale; As circles on a smooth canal: The mountains round, unhappy fate! 20 30 ΙΟ 20 30 Sooner or later, of all height, Withdraw their summits from the skies, Adds a thousand woods and meads, Now, I gain the mountain's brow, Old castles on the cliffs arise, Below me trees unnumbered rise, 259 The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, Haunt of Phillis, queen of love, Gaudy as the opening dawn, Lies a long and level lawn On which a dark hill, steep and high, Holds and charms the wandering eye. Deep are his feet in Towy's flood, His sides are cloth'd with waving wood, And ancient towers crown his brow, That cast an aweful look below; Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, THE FLEECE FROM BOOK I 40 50 60 70' 400 Ah, gentle shepherd, thine the lot to tend, Of all, that feel distress, the most assail'd, Feeble, defenceless: lenient be thy care: But spread around thy tenderest diligence In flow'ry spring-time, when the new-dropt lamb, Tottering with weakness by his mother's side, Feels the fresh world about him; and each thorn, Hillock, or furrow, trips his feeble feet: |