How swell'd immense! amid whose azure throned
The radiant sun how gay! how calm below
The gilded earth! the harvest-treasures all
Now gather'd in, beyond the rage of storms,
Sure to the swain; the circling fence shut up,
And instant Winter's utmost rage defied:

While, loose to festive joy, the country round
Laughs with the loud sincerity of mirth,

Shook to the wind their cares. The toil-strung youth,
By the quick sense of music taught alone,

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1220

Leaps wildly graceful in the lively dance.

1225

Her every charm abroad, the village-toast,

Young, buxom, warm, in native beauty rich,

Darts not unmeaning looks; and, where her eye

Points an approving smile, with double force

The cudgel rattles, and the wrestler twines.

1230

Age too shines out, and garrulous recounts

The feats of youth. Thus they rejoice, nor think

That, with to-morrow's sun, their annual toil
Begins again the never-ceasing round.

O, knew he but his happiness, of men The happiest he, who, far from public rage, Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired,

1235

Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life!

What, though the dome be wanting, whose proud gate,
Each morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd
Of flatterers false, and in their turn abused?

1240

Vile intercourse! What, though the glittering robe-

Of every hue reflected light can give,

Or floating loose, or stiff with mazy gold,

The pride and gaze of fools--oppress him not?

1245

What, though, from utmost land and sea purvey'd,
For him each rarer tributary life

Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps

With luxury and death? What, though his bowl
Flames not with costly juice; nor, sunk in beds
Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night,
Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state?
What, though he knows not those fantastic joys
That still amuse the wanton, still deceive;
A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain;
Their hollow moments undelighted all ?
Sure peace is his; a solid life, estranged

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1255

AUTUMN.

To disappointment and fallacious hope;

109

Rich in content, in Nature's bounty rich,

In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the Spring

1260

When heaven descends in showers, or bends the bough

When Summer reddens and when Autumn beams,

Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies

Conceal'd, and fattens with the richest sap,

These are not wanting; nor the milky drove,

1265

Luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowing vale;

Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams,

And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere

Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade,

Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay;
Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song,
Dim grottoes, gleaming lakes, and fountain clear.
Here too dwells simple Truth, plain Innocence,
Unsullied Beauty, sound unbroken Youth,
Patient of labour, with a little pleased,
Health ever-blooming, unambitious Toil,

Calm Contemplation, and poetic Ease.

Let others brave the flood in quest of gain,

And beat, for joyless months, the gloomy wave.
Let such as deem it glory to destroy,

Rush into blood, the sack of cities seek,

Unpierced, exulting in the widow's wail,

The virgin's shriek, and infant's trembling cry.
Let some, far-distant from their native soil,
Urged or by want or harden'd avarice,
Find other lands beneath another sun.
Let this through cities work his eager way
By legal outrage and establish'd guile,
The social sense extinct; and that ferment
Mad into tumult the seditious herd,
Or melt them down to slavery. Let these
Ensnare the wretched in the toils of law,
Fomenting discord, and perplexing right,
An iron race! and those, of fairer front,
But equal inhumanity, in courts,
Delusive pomp, and dark cabals, delight;
Wreathe the deep bow, diffuse the lying smile,
And tread the weary labyrinth of state :
While he, from all the stormy passions free
That restless men involve, hears, and but hears,

L

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At distance safe, the human tempest roar,
Wrapt close in conscious peace. The fall of kings,
The rage of nations, and the crush of states,
Move not the man who, from the world escaped,
In still retreats and flowery solitudes,

To Nature's voice attends, from month to month.
And day to day, through the revolving year;
Admiring, sees her in her every shape;
Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart;
Takes what she liberal gives, nor thinks of more.
He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting gems,
Marks the first bud, and sucks the healthful gale
Into his freshen'd soul; her genial hours
He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows,
And not an opening blossom breathes, in vain.
In Summer he, beneath the living shade,
Such as o'er frigid Tempè wont to wave,
Or Hæmus cool, reads what the Muse, of these
Perhaps, has in immortal numbers sung;
Or what she dictates writes; and oft, an eye
Shot round, rejoices in the vigorous year.
When Autumn's yellow lustre gilds the world,
And tempts the sickled swain into the field,
Seized by the general joy, his heart distends
With gentle throes; and, through the tepid gleams
Deep-musing, then he best exerts his song.
Even Winter wild to him is full of bliss.
The mighty tempest, and the hoary waste,

Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth,
Awake to solemn thought. At night the skies,
Disclosed and kindled by refining frost,
Pour every lustre on the' exalted eye.

A friend, a book, the stealing hours secure,
And mark them down for wisdom.

O'er land and sea imagination roams;

With swift wing,

Or truth, divinely breaking on his mind,
Elates his being, and unfolds his powers;
Or in his breast heroic virtue burns.
The touch of kindred, too, and love he feels;
The modest eye, whose beams on his alone
Ecstatic shine; the little strong embrace
Of prattling children, twined around his neck,
And, emulous to please him, calling forth

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1335

1340

The fond parental soul. Nor purpose gay,

Amusement, dance, or song, he sternly scorns;

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1345

For happiness and true philosophy

Are of the social still and smiling kind.

This is the life which those who fret in guilt

And guilty cities never knew; the life

Led by primeval ages, uncorrupt,

1350

When angels dwelt, and God himself, with man!
O NATURE, all-sufficient, over all,

Enrich me with the knowledge of thy works!

Snatch me to heaven; thy rolling wonders there,
World beyond world, in infinite extent,
Profusely scatter'd o'er the void immense,
Show me; their motions, periods, and their laws,
Give me to scan; through the disclosing deep
Light my blind way: the mineral strata there;
Thrust, blooming, thence the vegetable world;
O'er that the rising system, more complex,
Of animals; and, higher still, the mind,
The varied scene of quick-compounded thought,
And where the mixing passions endless shift;—
These ever open to my ravish'd eye;

A search the flight of time can ne'er exhaust!

But if to that unequal, if the blood
In sluggish streams about my heart forbid
That best ambition, under closing shades
Inglorious lay me by the lowly brook,

And whisper to my dreams. From Thee begin,
Dwell all on Thee, with Thee conclude my song;
And let me never, never stray from Thee!

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1370

WINTER.

TO THE

RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR SPENCER COMPTON.

SIR,

THE author of the following poem begs leave to inscribe this, his first performance, to your name and patronage: unknown himself, and only introduced by the Muse, he yet ventures to approach you, with a modest cheerfulness; for, whoever attempts to excel in any generous art, though he comes alone, and unregarded by the world, may hope for your notice and esteem. Happy if I can, in any degree, merit this good fortune: as every ornament and grace of polite learning is yours, your single approbation

will be my fame.

I dare not indulge my heart by dwelling on your public character; on that exalted honour and integrity which distinguish you in that august assembly where you preside, that unshaken loyalty to your sovereign, that disinterested concern for his people which shine out, united, in all your behaviour, and finish the patriot. I am conscious of my want of strength and skill for so delicate an undertaking; and yet, as the shepherd in his cottage may feel and acknowledge the influence of the sun with as lively a gratitude as the great man in his palace, even I may be allowed to publish my sense of those blessings which, from so many powerful virtues, are derived to the nation they adorn.