Nor place, nor form controls. To eyes, to ears, To every organ of the copious mind,
He offereth all its treasures. Him the hours,
The seasons him obey: and changeful Time
Sees him at will keep measure with his flight,
At will outstrip it. To enhance his toil,
He summoneth from the uttermost extent
Of things which God hath taught him, every for
Auxiliar, every power; and all beside
Excludes imperious. His prevailing hand
Gives, to corporeal essence, life and sense
And every stately function of the soul.
The soul itself to him obsequious lies,
Like matter's passive heap; and as he wills,
To reason and affection he assigns
Their just alliances, their just degrees:
Whence his peculiar honors; whence the race 155
Of men who people his delightful world,
Men genuine and according to themselves,
Transcend as far the uncertain sons of earth,
As earth itself to his delightful world
The palm of spotless beauty doth resign.
ON yonder verdant hillock laid,
Where oaks and elms, a friendly shade,
O'erlook the falling stream,
O master of the Latin lyre,
Awhile with thee will I retire
From summer's noontide beam.
And, lo, within my lonely bower,
The industrious bee from many a flower
Collects her balmy dews:
"For me," she sings," the gems are born, "For me their silken robe adorn,
"Their fragrant breath diffuse."
Sweet murmurer! may no rude storm
This hospitable scene deform,
Nor check thy gladsome toils;
Still may the buds unsullied spring,
Still showers and sunshine court thy wing
To these ambrosial spoils.
Nor shall my Muse hereafter fail
Her fellow-laborer thee to hail;
And lucky be the strains!
For long ago did nature frame
Your seasons and your arts the same,
Your pleasures and your pains.
Like thee, in lowly, sylvan scenes,
On river-banks and flowery greens
My Muse delighted plays;
Nor through the desert of the air
Though swans or eagles triumph there,
With fond ambition strays.
Nor where the boding raven chants,
Nor near the owl's unhallow'd haunts
Will she her cares employ ;
But flies from ruins and from tombs,
From superstition's horrid glooms,
To day-light and to joy.
Nor will she tempt the barren waste; Nor deigns the lurking strength to taste Of any noxious thing;
But leaves with scorn to envy's use The insipid nightshade's baneful juice, The nettle's sordid sting.
From all which nature fairest knows,
The vernal blooms, the summer rose,
She draws her blameless wealth;
And, when the generous task is done,
She consecrates a double boon,
To pleasure and to health.
On the Winter Solstice. 1740.
THE radiant ruler of the year
At length his wintry goal attains
Soon to reverse the long career,
And northward bend his steady reins.
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