Which, as they gush upon the ground,
Still scatter mifty dews around :
A ruftic, wild, grotesque alcove,
Its fide with mantling woodbines wove;
Cool as the cave where Clio dwells,
Whence Helicon's fresh fountain wells;
Or noon-tide grott where Sylvan sleeps
In hoar Lyceum's piny steeps.
Me, Goddess, in fuch cavern lay,
While all without is scorch'd in day;
Sore fighs the weary fwain, beneath
His with'ring hawthorn on the heath;
The drooping hedger wishes eve,
In vain, of labour short reprieve!
Meantime, on Afric's glowing fands
Smote with keen heat, the trav❜ler stands :
Low finks his heart, while round his eye
Measures the scenes that boundless lie,
Ne'er yet by foot of mortal worn,
Where Thirst, wan pilgrim, walks forlorn.
How does he wish fome cooling wave
To flake his lips, or limbs to lave!
And thinks, in every whisper low,
He hears a bursting fountain flow.
Or bear me to yon antique wood,
Dim temple of fage Solitude!
But ftill in fancy's mirror seen
Some more romantic fcene would please,
There within a nook moft dark,
Where none my mufing mood may
Let me in many a whisper'd rite
The Genius old of Greece invite,
With that fair wreath my brows to bind,
Which for his chofen imps he twin'd,
Weil nurtur'd in Pierian lore,
On clear Iliffus' laureat fhore..
Till high on waving neft reclin'd,
The raven wakes my tranced mind!
Or to the foreft-fringed vale
Where widow'd turtles love to wail,
Where cowflips clad in mantle meek,
Nod their tall heads to breezes weak:
In the midst, with fedges grey
Crown'd, a fcant riv'let winds its way,
And trembling thro' the weedy wreaths,
Around an oozy freshness breathes.
O'er the folitary green,
Nor cott, nor loitering hind is feen:
Nor aught alarms the mute repose,
Save that by fits an heifer lows:
A scene might tempt fome peaceful fage
To rear him a lone hermitage;
Fit place his penfive eld might chufe
On virtue's holy lore to muse.
Yet ftill the fultry noon t' appease
Some more romantic scene might please ; H
Or fairy bank, or magic lawn,
By Spenfer's lavish pencil drawn.
Or bow'r in Vallambrofa's fhade,
By legendary pens pourtray'd.
Hafte let me fhroud from painful light,
On that hoar hill's aereal height,
In folemn state, where waving wide,
Thick pines with darkening umbrage hide
The rugged vaults, and riven tow'rs
Of that proud caftle's painted bow'rs,
Whence HARDYKNUTE, a baron bold,
In Scotland's martial days of old,
Defcended from the stately feast,
Begirt with many a warrior-gueft,
To quell the pride of Norway's king,
With quiv'ring lance and twanging string.
As thro' the caverns dim I wind,
Might I that holy legend find,
By fairies fpelt in mystic rhimes,
To teach enquiring later times,
What open force, or fecret guile,
Dash'd into duft the folemn pile.
But when mild Morn in faffron ftole
First iffues from her eastern goal;
Let not my due feet fail to climb
Some breezy fummit's brow fublime,
Whence nature's univerfal face,
Illumin'd fmiles with new-born grace;
The misty streams that wind below,
With filver-fparkling luftre' glow;
The groves, and caftled cliffs appear
Invested all in radiance clear;
O! every village-charm beneath!
The fmoke that mounts in azure wreath!
O beauteous, rural interchange!
The fimple fpire, and elmy grange!
CONTENT, indulging blissful hours,
Whistles o'er the fragrant flow'rs,
And cattle rouz'd to pasture new,
Shake jocund from their fides the dew.
'Tis thou, alone, O SUMMER mild,
Canft bid me carol wood-notes wild :
Whene'er I view thy genial scenes:
Thy waving woods, embroider'd greens;
What fires within my bofom wake,
How glows my mind the reed to take!
What charms like thine the mufe can call,
With whom 'tis youth and laughter all;
With whom each field's a paradise,
And all the globe a Bow'r of bliss!
With thee converfing, all the day,
I meditate my lightsome lay.
These pedant cloifters let me leave,
To breathe my votive song at eve,
In valleys where mild whispers use;
Of fhade and ftream, to court the muse;
While wand'ring o'er the brook's dim verge, I hear the ftock-dove's dying dirge.
But when life's bufier fcene is o'er,
And Age fhall give the treffes hoar,
I'd fly foft Luxury's marble dome,
And make an humble thatch my home,
Which floaping hills around enclofe,
Where many a beech and brown oak grows;
Beneath whofe dark and branching bow'rs
It's tides a far-fam'd river pours :
By nature's beauties taught to please,
Sweet Tufculane of rural eafe!
Still grot
Who loves to rest her gentle head.
For not the fcenes of Attic art
Can comfort care, or footh the heart:
Nor burning cheek, nor wakeful eye,
For gold, and Tyrian purple fly.
of Peace! in lowly shed
Thither, kind heav'n, in pity lent,
Send me a little, and content;
The faithful friend, and chearful night,
The focial scene of dear delight:
The confcience pure, the temper gay,
The mufing eve, and idle day.
Give me beneath cool fhades to fit,
Rapt with the charms of claffic wit:
To catch the bold heroic flame,
That built immortal Græcia's fame.
|