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Whose toil to yours is warmth, and graceful | 0 let not, aim'd from some inhuman eye, pride :

The gun the music of the coming year And, oh! be mindful of that sparing board, Destroy; and harmless, unsuspecting harm, Which covers yours with luxury profuse,

Lay the weak tribes a miserable prey Makes your glass sparkle, and your sense

In mingled murder, flutt'ring on the ground! rejoice!

The pale descending year, yet pleasing Nor cruelly demand what the deep rains

still, And all-involving winds have swept away.

A gentler mood inspires ; for now the leaf

Incessant rustles from the mournful grove; James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748.

Oft startling such as studious walk below,
And slowly circles through the waving air.
But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs
Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams;

Till choked, and matted with the dreary 872.-AUTUMN EVENING SCENE.

shower,

The forest walks, at ev'ry rising gale, But see the fading many-colour'd woods, Roll wide the wither'd waste, and whistle Shade deepening over shade, the country bleak. round

Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields ; Imbrown ; a crowded umbrage dusk and dun, And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery Of ev'ry hue, from wan declining green

race To sooty dark. These now the lonesome Their sunny robes resign. E'en what remuse,

main'd Low whisp'ring, lead into their leaf-strown Of stronger fruits falls from the naked tree; walks,

And woods, fields, gardens, orchards all And give the season in its latest view.

. around, Meantime, light shadowing all, a sober The desolated prospect thrills the soul. calm

The western sun withdraws the shorten'd Fleeces unbounded ether: whose least wave

day, Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn And humid evening, gliding o'er the sky, The gentle current: while illumined wide, In her chill progress, to the ground conThe dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun,

densed And through their lucid veil his soften'd The vapour throws. Where creeping waters force

ooze, Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the Where marshes stagnate, and where rivers time,

wind, For those whom virtue and whom nature Cluster the rolling fogs, and swim along charm,

The dusky-mantled lawn. Meanwhile the To steal themselves from the degenerate moon, crowd,

Full-orb'd, and breaking through the scatter'd And soar above this little scene of things :

clouds, To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their Shows her broad visage in the crimson'd

east. To soothe the throbbing passions into peace; Turn'd to the sun direct her spotted disk, And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks. Where mountains rise, umbrageous dales" Thus solitary, and in pensive guise,

descend, Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead,

And caverns deep as optic tube descries, And through the sadden'd grove, where scarce A smaller earth, gives us his blaze again, is heard

Void of its flame, and sheds a softer day. One dying strain, to cheer the woodman's Now through the passing clouds she seems to toil.

stoop, Haply some widow'd songster pours his Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime. plaint,

Wide the pale deluge floats, and streaming Far, in faint warblings, through the tawny mild copse;

O'er the skied mountain to the shadowy While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks,

vale, And each wild throat, whose artless strains so While rocks and floods reflect the quiv’ring late

gleam; Swell'd all the music of the swarming shades, The whole air whitens with a boundless tide Robb’d of their tuneful souls, now shivering Of silver radiance trembling round the sit

world. On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock : The lengthen'd night elapsed, the morning With not a brightness waving o'er their shines plumes,

Serene, in all her dewy beauty bright, And nought save chatt'ring discord in their Unfolding fair the last autumnal day. note.

And now the mounting sun dispels the fog;

feet;

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The rigid hoar-frost melts before his beam; All winter drives along the darken'd air, And hung on every spray, on every blade In his own loose revolving fields the swain Of grass, the myriad dew-drops twinkle Disaster'd stands; sees other hills ascend, round.

Of unknown joyless brow, and other'scenes,

Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748.

Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid
Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on
From hill to dale, still more and more astray,

Impatient flouncing through the drifted 873.—A WINTER LANDSCAPE..

heaps,

Stung with the thoughts of home; the Through the hushed air the whit’ning shower thoughts of home descends,

Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour At first thin-wavering, till at last the flakes

forth Fall broad and wide, and fast, dimming the In many a vain attempt. How sinks his day

soul ! With a continual flow. The cherished fields What black despair, what horror, fills his Put on their winter robe of purest white:

heart! 'T'is brightness all, save where the new snow When for the dusky spot which fancy melts

feign'd, Along the mazy current. Low the woods His tufted cottage rising through the snow, Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid He meets the roughness of the middle waste, sun

Far from the track and bless'd abode of man ; Faint from the west, emits his evening ray; While round him night resistless closes fast, Earth's universal face, deep hid, and chill, And every tempest howling o'er his head, Is one wide dazzling waste, that buries wide Renders the savage wilderness more wild. The works of man. Drooping, the labourer. Then throng the busy shapes into his mind,

Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep, Stands covered o'er with snow, and then A dire descent! beyond the power of frost; demands

Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, Smoothed up with snow; and what is land Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around

unknown, The winnowing store, and claim the little What water of the still unfrozen spring, boon

In the loose marsh or solitary lake, Which Providence assigns them. One alone, Where the fresh fountain from the bottom The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, boils. Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,

These check his fearful steps, and down be In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves

sinks His shivering mates, and pays to trusted Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, man

Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, His annual visit. Half afraid, he first

Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots Against the window beats; then, brisk, Through the wrong bosom of the dying man,. alights

His wife, his children, and his friends, un On the warm hearth; then hopping o'er the seen. floor,

In vain for him the officious wife prepares Eyes all the smiling family askance,

The fire fair blazing, and the vestment warm : And pecks, and starts, and wonders where In vain his little children, peeping out he is :

Into the mingling storm, demand their sire Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs With tears of artless innocence. Alas! Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds Nor wife nor children more shall he behold, Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every hare,

nerve Thongh timorous of heart, and hard beset The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense, By death in various forms, dark snares and And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold, dogs,

Lays him along the snows a stiffen'd corse, And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, | Stretch'd out, and bleaching on the northern Urged on by fearless want. The bleating blast.

kine Eye the bleak heaven, and next, the glist’ning

James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. earth, With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dis

persed, Dig for the wither'd herb through heaps of

874.-A HYMN. snow. * As thus the snows arise, and foul and These, as they change, Almighty Father, these fierce

Are but the varied God. The rolling year

Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing | Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you Spring

rage. Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling Wide flush the fields; the softening air is rills; balm;

And let me catch it as I muse along. Echo the mountains round; the forest Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; smiles;

Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze And every sense, and every heart, is joy. Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, Then comes thy glory in the Summer A secret world of wonders in thyself, months,

Sound his stupendous praise; whose greater With light and heat refulgent. Then thy voice Sun

Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Shoots full perfection through the swelling | Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and year :

flowers, And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder In mingled clouds to him ; whose Sun exalts, speaks ;

Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,

paints. By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him ; gales.

Breathe your still song into the reaper's Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined,

heart, And spreads a common feast for all that As home he goes beneath the joyous Moon. lives.

Ye that keep watch in Heaven, as Earth In Winter awful thou ! with clouds and asleep storms

Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest Yo constellations, while your angels strike, roll’d,

Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing, Great source of day! best image here below Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, And humblest nature with thy northern From world to world, the vital ocean round, blast.

On Nature write with every beam his praise. Mysterious round! what skill, what force The thunder rolls; be 'hush'd the prostrate divine,

world; Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, While cloud to cloud returns the solemn Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art,

hymn. Such beauty and beneficence combined ; Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; Retain the sound : the broad responsive low, And all so forming an harmonious whole; Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. reigns; But wandering oft, with brute unconscious | And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. gaze,

Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty Burst from the groves! and when the restless hand,

day, That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm thence

The listening shades, and teach the night his The fair profusion that o'erspreads the praise. Spring :

Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, Flings from the Sun direct the flaming day; At once the head, the heart, and tongue of Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempests forth;

Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities And, as on Earth this grateful change vast, revolves,

Assembled men, to the deep organ join With transport touches all the springs of life. The long-resounding voice, oft breaking Nature, attend ! join every living soul,

clear, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, At solemn pauses, through the swelling base ; In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise

And, as each mingling flame increases each, One general song! To him, ye vocal gales, In one united ardour rise to Heaven. Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness Or if you rather chuse the rural shade, breathes :

And find a fane in every secret grove; Oh, talk of him in solitary glooms;

There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving lay, pine

The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, For me, when I forget the darling theme, Who shake th' astonish'd world, lift high to Whether the blossom blows, the SummerHeaven

ray

all,

Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams; ! With brother-brutes the human race had Or Winter rises in the blackening east;

grazed; Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no None e'er had soard to fame, none honour'd more,

been, none praised., And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat. Should Fate command me to the farthest Great Homer's song had never fired the verge

breast Of the green earth, to distant barbarous To thirst of glory, and heroic deeds ; climes,

Sweet Maro's Muse, sunk in inglorious Rivers unknown to song; where first the

rest, Sun

Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds : Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam

The wits of modern time had told their Flames on the Atlantic isles; 'tis nought to

beads, me;

And monkish legends been their only Since God is ever present, ever felt,

strains ; In the void waste, as in the city full ;

Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt in And where he vital breathes, there must be

weeds, joy.

Our Shakspeare stroll’d and laugh'd with When ev'n at last the solemn hour shall

Warwick swains, come,

| Ne had my master Spenser charm'd his And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,

Mulla's plains. I cheerful will obey : there, with new

powers, Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go

Dumb too had been the sage historic Where Universal Love not smiles around,

Muse, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ;

And perish'd all the sons of ancient fame; From seeming evil still educing good,

Those starry lights of virtue, that diffuse And better thence again, and better still,

Through the dark depth of time their vivid In infinite progression. But I lose

flame, Myself in him, in Light ineffable;

Had all been lost with such as have no Come then, expressive Silence, muse his

name. praise.

Who then had scorn'd his ease for others'

good? James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. Who then had toil'd rapacious men to

tame ? Who in the public breach devoted stood, And for his country's cause been prodigal of

blood ?

875.-FROM THE BARD'S SONG IN THE

But should your hearts to fame unfeeling CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

be,

If right I read, you pleasure all require : “ It was not by vile loitering in ease

Then hear how best may be obtain'd this That Greece obtain'd the brighter palm of

fee, art,

How best enjoy'd this nature's wide desire. That soft yet ardent Athens learnt to Toil, and be glad! let Industry inspire please,

Into your quicken'd limbs her buoyant To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart,

breath! In all supreme complete in every part !

Who does not act is dead; absorpt entire It was not thence majestic Rome arose,

In miry sloth, no pride, no joy he hath : And o'er the nations shook her conquering 1o leaden-hearted men, to be in love with dart :

death! For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows;

Ah! what avail the largest gifts of Renown is not the child of indolent repose.

Heaven,

When drooping health and spirits go Had unambitious mortals minded nought,

amiss ? But in loose joy their time to wear away; How tasteless then whatever can be given! Had they alone the lap of dalliance sought, Health is the vital principle of bliss, Pleased on her pillow their dull heads to And exercise of health. In proof of this, lay,

Behold the wretch, who slugs his life away, Rude Nature's state had been our state to Soon swallow'd in disease's sad abyss; day;

While he whom toil has braced, or manly No cities e'er their towery fronts had

play, raised,

Has light as air each limb, each thought as No arts had made us opulent and gay;

clear as day.

(SixTH PERIOD.

O, who can speak the vigorous joy of

health? Unclogg'd the body, unobscured the mind : The morning rises gay, with pleasing

stealth, The temperate evening falls serene and

kind. In health the wiser brutes true gladness

find. See! how the younglings frisk along the

meads, As May comes on, and wakes the balmy

wind; Rampant with life, their joy all joy

exceeds: Yet what but high-strung health this dancing

pleasaunce breeds ?”
James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748.

A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapt in some mysterious dream,
A lone philosopher you seem ;
Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky;
A shepherd next, you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain.
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that sweet passion in your face ;
Then, calm'd to friendship, you assume
The gentle-looking Hartford's bloom,
As, with her Musidora, she
(Her Musidora fond of thee)
Amid the long withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rivall’d nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-bent rose is born ;
And while meridian fervours beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat ;
But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landscape swims away,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
And that best hour of musing thine.

Descending angels bless thy train,
The virtues of the sage, and swain ;
Plain Innocence, in white array'd,
Before thee lifts her fearless head :
Religion's beams around thee shine,
And cheer thy glooms with light divine :
About thee sports sweet Liberty;
And rapt Urania sings to thee.

Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell !
And in thy deep recesses dwell ;
Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,
When Meditation has her fill,
I just may cast my careless eyes
Where London's spiry turrets rise,
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then shield me in the woods again.
James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748.

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877.-HYMN ON SOLITUDE. Hail, mildly pleasing Solitude, Companion of the wise and good, But, from whose holy, piercing eye, The herd of fools and villains fly.

Oh ! how I love with thee to walk, And listen to thy whisper'd talk, Which innocence and truth imparts, And melts the most obdurate hearts.

For whom the cooling shade in Summer

twines, While his full cellars give their generous

wines; From whose wide fields unbounded Autumn

pours A golden tide into his swelling stores ;

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