The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere. Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite Disdains not; nor the palate, undeprav'd By culinary arts, unsav'ry deems. No Sofa then awaited my return; Nor Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil Incurring short fatigue; and, though our years, As life declines, speed rapidly away, And not a year but pilfers as he goes
Some youthful grace, that age would gladly keep; A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees
Their length and colour from the locks they spare; Th' elastic spring of an unwearied foot, That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence, That play of lungs, inhaling and again Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me, Mine have not pilfer'd yet, nor yet impair'd My relish of fair prospect; scenes that sooth'd Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find Still soothing, and of pow'r to charm me still. And witness, dear companion of my walks, Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love, Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth And well-tried virtues could alone inspire- Witness a joy that thou hast doubted long. Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, And that my raptures are not conjur❜d up To serve occasions of poetic pomp, But genuine, and art partner of them all. How oft upon yon eminence our pace
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, While Admiration, feeding at the eye, And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.
Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd
The distant plough slow moving, and beside His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track, The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!
Here, Ouse, slow winding through a level plain Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, Conducts the eye along his sinuous course Delighted. There fast rooted in their bank, Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms, That screen the herdsman's solitary hut ; While far beyond, and overthwart the stream, That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, The sloping land recedes into the clouds; Displaying on its varied side the grace Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r, Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells Just undulates upon the list'ning ear,
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. Scenes must be beautiful, which daily view'd Please daily, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years: Praise justly due to those that I describe.
Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, 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 flutt'ring, all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighb'ring 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 sooth 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 Devis'd the weather-house, that useful toy! Fearless of humid air and gath❜ring rains, Forth steps the man-an emblem of myself! More delicate his tim'rous 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 discov'ries 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 clam'rous, whether pleas'd 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 bev'rage home, Far fetch'd and little worth; nor seldom waits, Dependent on the baker's punctual call, To hear his creaking panniers at the door, Angry and sad, and his last crust consum❜d. So, farewell envy of the peasant's nest ! If solitude make scant the means of life, Society for me!-though 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 bow'rs, enjoy'd at noon The gloom and coolness of declining day. We bear our shades about us; self-depriv'd Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree. Thanks to Benevolus*-he spares me yet These chesnuts rang'd in corresponding lines; And, though himself so polish'd, still reprieves The obsolete proximity 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 pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. Hence, ancle deep in moss and flow'ry thyme, We mount again, and feel at ev'ry step
* John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq. of Weston Underwood.
Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, Rais'd 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 The pannels, leaving an obscure, rude name, In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. So strong the zeal t' 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 sun-burnt hayfield homeward creeps The loaded wain; while lightened of its charge, The wain that meets it passes swiftly by ; The boorish driver leaning o'er his team
Vocif'rous, and impatient of delay.
Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, Diversified with trees of ev'ry growth,
Alike, yet various. Here the gray, 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 gray; the willow such,
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