With foliage of fuch dark redundant growth,
I call'd the low-roof'd lodge the peasant's neft. 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 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 poffefs The poet's treasure, filence, and indulge The dreams of fancy, tranquil and fecure. 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 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 fad, and his laft cruft confum'd.
envy of the peasant's nest.
If folitude make scant the means of life,
Society for me! thou seeming sweet, Be still a pleasing object in my view, My vifit ftill, but never mine abode.
Not distant far, a length of colonade Invites us. Monument of ancient tafte, Now fcorn'd, 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 bow'rs, enjoy'd at noon The gloom and coolnefs of declining day. We bear our fhades about us; felf-depriv'd Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And rangé an Indian waste without a tree. Thanks to Benevolus-he fpares me yet
John Courtney Throckmorton, Efq. of Weston Underwood.
These chefnuts rang'd in correfponding lines, And though himself so polish'd, still reprieves The obfolete prolixity of shade.
Descending now (but cautious, left too fast) A fudden steep, 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 flow'ry thyme, We mount again, and feel at ev'ry step Our foot half funk in hillocks green and foft, Rais'd 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, That may record the mischiefs he has done.
The fummit gain'd, behold the proud alcove That crowns it! yet not all its pride fecures. The grand retreat from injuries imprefs'd
By rural carvers, who with knives deface
The pannels, leaving an obscure, rude name, In characters uncouth, and spelt amifs.
So ftrong the zeal t' immortalize himself Beats in the breast of man, that ev'n a few Few tranfient years won from th' abyfs abhorr'd Of blank oblivion, feem a glorious prize,
And even to a clown. Now roves the eye, And posted on this fpeculative height
Exults in its command. The sheep-fold here Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. At first, progreffive as a ftream, they seek The middle field; but fcatter'd by degrees,
Each to his choice, foon whiten all the land. There, from the fun-burnt hay-field, homeward creeps The loaded wain, while, lighten'd of its charge, The wain that meets it paffes fwiftly by,
The boorifh driver leaning o'er his team Vocif'rous, and impatient of delay.
Nor lefs attractive is the woodland fcene,
Diverfify'd with trees of ev'ry growth,
Alike, yet various. Here the grey finooth trunks Of afh or lime, or beech, diftinctly shine, Within the twilight of their diftant fhades;
There, loft behind a rifing ground, the wood Seems funk, and fhorten'd to its topmoft boughs. No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, And of a wannifh grey; the willow fuch, And poplar, that with filver lines his leaf, And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm: Of deeper green the elm; and deeper ftill, Lord of the woods, the long-furviving oak. Some gloffy-leav'd and fhining in the fun, The maple, and the beech of oily nuts Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve
Diffufing odors: nor unnoted pafs
The fycamore, capricious in attire,
Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet
Have chang'd the woods, in fcarlet honors bright.
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