Juft undulates upon the listening ear,
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which daily viewed
Please daily, and whofe novelty furvives
Long knowledge and the fcrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that I describe.
Nor rural fights alone, but rural founds, Exhilarate the spirit, and restore
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 mnd;
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 softer 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, whoíe notes
Nice fingered art must emulate in vain,
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim fublime
In till 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 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 foaks 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 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 clofe
Environed with a ring of branching elms,
That overhang the thatch, itself unfeen
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 said, at least I fhould 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 cryftal 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 last cruft consumed.
So farewell envy of the peasant's nest!
If folitude make scant the means of life,
Society for me!-thou feeming 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 screen
From fultry funs: and, in their fhaded walks
And long protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon
The gloom and coolnefs of declining day.
We bear our shades about us; felf-deprived
Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread,
And range an Indian waste without a tree.
Thanks to Benevolus-he fpares me yet
These chefnuts ranged in correfponding lines;
And, though himself so polished, still reprieves
The obfolete prolixity of shade.
* John Courtnay Throckmorton, Esq. of Wefton Underwood.
Defcending now (but cautious, left too faft) A fudden fleep, upon a ruftic bridge We pass a gulph, in which the willows dip Their pendent boughs,. ftooping 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,
may record the mischiefs he has done.
The fummit gained, behold the proud alcove That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures The grand retreat from injuries impressed By rural carvers, who with knives deface The pannels, leaving an obfcure, rude name In characters uncouth, and fpelt amifs. So ftrong the zeal to immortalize himself
Beats in the breast of man, that even a few
Few tranfient years, won from the abyss abhorred
Of blank oblivion, feem a glorious prize,
And even to a clown. Now roves the eye;
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