But animated nature sweeter ftill,
To footh and fatisfy the human ear.
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
The live-long night: nor thefe alone, whofe notes
Nice finger'd art must emulate in vain,
But cawing rooks, and kites that fwim fublime
In ftill repeated circles, fcreaming loud,
The jay, the pie, and ev'n the boding owl
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.
Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,
Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,
And only there, pleafe highly for their fake.
Peace to the artift, whofe ingenious thought Devis'd the weather-houfe, that useful toy! Fearless of humid air and gathering rains, Forth steps the man-an emblem of myself! ́ More delicate, his tim'rous mate retires. When Winter foaks the fields, and female feet, Too weak to ftruggle with tenacious clay, Or ford the rivulets, are beft at home, The talk of new difcov'ries falls on me.
At fuch a season, and with fuch a charge,
Once went I forth; and found, till then unknown,
A cottage, whither oft we fince repair:
"Tis perch'd upon the green-hill top, but close Environ'd with a ring of branching elms
That overhang the thatch, itfelf unfeen
Peeps at the vale below; fo thick befet
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 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 with'd the peaceful covert mine.
Here, I have faid, at least I fhould 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 feldom waits,
Dependant on the baker's punctual call,
To hear his creaking panniers at the door,
Hungry and fad, and his laft cruft confum'd.
So farewell envy of the peafant's neft!
If folitude make fcant the means of life,
Society for me!-thou feeming fweet,
Be ftill a pleafing object in my view;
My vifit ftill, but never mine abode.
Not diftant far, a length of colonnade
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 shaded walks
And long protracted bow'rs, enjoy'd at noon
The gloom and coolness of declining day.
We bear our shades about us; felf-depriv'd
Of other screen, the thin umbrella fpread,
And range an Indian wafte without a tree.
Thanks to Benevolus *-hé fpares me yet
These chefnuts rang'd in correfponding lines;
And, though himself so polish'd, still reprieves
The obfolete prolixity of fhade.
John Courtney Throckmorton, Efq. of Wefton Underwood.
Defcending now (but cautious, left too faft)
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 soft,
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 secures
The grand retreat from injuries imprefs'd
By rural carvers, who with knives deface
The pannels, leaving an obfcure, 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' abyss abhorr'd
Of blank oblivion, feem a glorious prize,
And even to a clown. Now roves the eye;
And, pofted on this fpeculative height,
Exults in its command. The fheep-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
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 scene,
Diversified with trees of ev'ry growth,
Alike, yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks
Of ath, or lime, or beech, diftin&tly shine,
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 afh far-ftretching his umbrageous arm;
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