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With foliage of fuch dark redundant growth,
I call'd the low-roof'd lodge the peafant's neft.
And hidden as it is, and far remote

From fuch unpleasing sounds 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 faid, at least I should 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 fweet 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 feldom waits,

Dependent on the baker's punctual call,

To hear his creaking panniers at the door,

Angry

Angry and fad, and his last crust confum'd.

So farewel envy of the peasant's neft.
If folitude make fcant the means of life,
Society for me! thou feeming fweet,
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 taste,
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 coolness of declining day.
We bear our shades about us; self-depriv'd
Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread,
And range an Indian wafte without a tree.
Thanks to Benevolus-he fpares me yet

* John Courtney Throckmorton, Efq. of Weston Underwood.

These

These chefnuts rang'd in corresponding lines, And though himself so polish'd, ftill reprieves The obfolete prolixity of shade.

Defcending now (but cautious, left too fast) A fudden steep, upon a rustic 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 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.

and foft,

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 defacé

The pannels, leaving an obfcure, rude name,
In characters uncouth, and spelt amifs.
So ftrong the zeal t' immortalize himself

Beats in the breaft of man, that ev'n a few
Few tranfient years won from th' abyss abhorr'd
Of blank oblivion, seem 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 boorish driver leaning o'er his team
Vocif'rous, and impatient of delay.

Nor lefs attractive is the woodland fcene,

Diverfified

Diversify'd with trees of ev'ry growth,

Alike, yet various. Here the grey fmooth trunks
Of afh or lime, or beech, diftinctly fhine,
Within the twilight of their distant shades;
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 fome,
And of a wannish 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 shining 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 scarlet honors bright.

VOL. II.

C

O'er

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