And often, by the murm'ring Rill, Hears the Thrush, while all is still, Within the Groves of Grongar Hill.
THE Morning's fair, the lusty Sun With ruddy Cheek begins to run; And early Birds, that wing the Skies, Sweetly sing to see him rise.
I am resolv'd, this charming Day, In the open Field to stray,
And have no Roof above my Head, But that whereon the Gods do tread. Before the yellow Barn I see
A beautiful Variety
Of strutting Cocks, advancing stout,
And flirting empty Chaff about:
Hens, Ducks, and Geese, and all their Brood,
And Turkeys gobling for their Food,
While Rusticks thrash the wealthy Floor,
And tempt all to crowd the Door.
What a fair Face does Nature show! Augusta, wipe thy dusty Brow;
A Landskip wide salutes my Sight, Of shady Vales, and Mountains bright; And azure Heavens I behold,
And Clouds of Silver and of Gold.
And now into the Fields I
Where Thousand flaming Flowers glow; And ev'ry neighb'ring Hedge I greet, With Honey-suckles smelling sweet. Now o'er the daisy Meads I stray, And meet with, as I pace my way, Sweetly shining on the Eye, A Riv'let gliding smoothly by ; Which shows with what an easy Tide The Moments of the happy glide.
Here, finding Pleasure after Pain, Sleeping I see a wearied Swain, While his full Scrip lies open by, That does his healthy Food supply. Happy Swain, sure happier far Than lofty Kings and Princes are ! Enjoy sweet Sleep, which shuns the Crown, With all its easy Beds of Down.
The Sun now shows his Noon-tide Blaze, And sheds around me burning Rays. A little onward, and I go
Into the Shade that Groves bestow, And on green Moss I lay me down, That o'er the Root of Oak has grown ; Where all is silent, but some Flood, That sweetly murmurs in the Wood; But Birds that warble in the Sprays, And charm ev'n Silence with their Lays. Oh pow'rful Silence, how you reign In the Poet's busy Brain!
His num'rous Thoughts obey the Calls Of the tuneful Water-falls;
Like Moles, whene'er the Coast is clear, They rise before thee without Fear, And range in Parties here and there. Some wildly to Parnassus wing, And view the fair Castalian Spring, Where they behold a lonely Well, Where now no tuneful Muses dwell; But now and then a slavish Hind Padling the troubled Pool they find. Some trace the pleasing Paths of Joy,
Others the blissful Scene destroy; In thorny Tracks of Sorrow stray,
And pine for Clio far away.
But stay-Methinks her Lays I hear,
So smooth! so sweet! so deep! so clear!
No, it is not her Voice I find ;
'Tis but the Eccho stays behind.
Some meditate Ambition's brow, And the black Gulph that gapes below: Some peep in Courts, and there they see The sneaking Tribe of Flattery. But, striking to the Ear and Eye, A nimble Deer comes bounding by! When rushing from yon rustling Spray, It made 'em vanish all away.
I rouse me up, and on I rove,
'Tis more than time to leave the Grove. The Sun declines, the Evening Breeze Begins to whisper thro' the Trees; And as I leave the Sylvan Gloom, As to the Glare of Day I come, An old Man's smoky Nest I see, Leaning on an aged Tree ;
Whose willow Walls and furzy Brow A little Garden sway below.
Thro' spreading Beds of blooming Green, Matted with Herbage sweet, and clean, A Vein of Water limps along,
And makes 'em ever green, and young. Here he puffs upon his Spade, And digs up Cabbage in the Shade: His tatter'd Rags are sable brown, His Beard and Hair are hoary grown ; The dying Sap descends apace, And leaves a wither'd Hand and Face. Up Grongar Hill I labour now, And catch at last his Bushy Brow. Oh! how fresh, how pure the Air ! Let me breathe a little here.
Where am I, Nature? I descry
Thy Magazine before me lie!
Temples!-and Towns !-and Tow'rs !-and Woods ! And Hills!—and Vales !—and Fields !—and Floods ! Crowding before me, edg'd around
With naked Wilds, and barren Ground.
See below the pleasant Dome,
The Poet's Pride, the Poet's Home,
Which the Sun-Beams shine upon, To the Even, from the Dawn. See her Woods where Eccho talks, Her Gardens trim, her Terras Walks, Her Wildernesses, fragrant Brakes, Her gloomy Bowers, and shining Lakes. Keep, ye Gods, this humble Seat For ever pleasant, private, neat. See yonder Hill, uprising steep, Above the River slow and deep: It looks from hence a Pyramid, Beneath a verdant Forest hid; On whose high Top there rises great, The mighty Remnant of a Seat, An old green Tow'r, whose batter'd Brow Frowns upon the Vale below.
Look upon that flow'ry Plain,
How the Sheep surround their Swain, How they crowd to hear his Strain! All careless, with his Legs across, Leaning on a Bank of Moss,
He spends his empty Hours at play, Which fly as light as Down away.
And there behold a bloomy Mead, A Silver Stream, a Willow Shade, Beneath the shade a Fisher stand, Who, with the Angle in his Hand, Swings the nibling Fry to Land.
In Blushes the descending Sun Kisses the Streams, while slow they run; And yonder Hill remoter grows, Or dusky Clouds do interpose.
The Fields are left, the lab'ring Hind His weary Oxen does unbind; And vocal Mountains, as they low, Re-eccho to the Vales below.
The jocund Shepherds piping come, And drive the Herd before 'em home; And now begin to light their Fires, Which send up Smoke in curling Spires!
While, with light Hearts, All homeward tend, To Aberglasney 1 I descend.
But, Oh! how bless'd wou'd be the Day, Did I with Clio pace my way,
And not alone, and solitary stray.
QUEEN of Fragrance, lovely Rose, The Beauties of thy Leaves disclose ! The Winter's past, the Tempests fly, Soft Gales breathe gently thro' the Sky; The Lark sweet warbling on the Wing Salutes the gay Return of Spring: The silver Dews, the vernal Show'rs, Call forth a bloomy Waste of Flow'rs; The joyous Fields, the shady Woods, Are cloath'd with Green, or swell with Buds; Then haste thy Beauties to disclose, Queen of Fragrance, lovely Rose !
Thou, beauteous Flow'r, a welcome Guest, Shalt flourish on the Fair-One's Breast, Shalt grace her Hand, or deck her Hair, The Flow'r most sweet, the Nymph most fair; Breathe soft, ye Winds! be calm, ye Skies! Arise ye flow'ry Race, arise!
And haste thy Beauties to disclose,
Queen of Fragrance, lovely Rose !
But thou, fair Nymph, thy self survey In this sweet Offspring of a Day;
That Miracle of Face must fail,
Thy Charms are sweet, but Charms are frail :
1 The Name of a Seat belonging to the Author's Brother.
« ForrigeFortsett » |