Strained to the root, the stooping forest pours A rustling shower of yet untimely leaves. High-beat, the circling mountains eddy in, From the bare wild, the dissipated storm, And send it in a torrent down the vale. Exposed, and naked, to its utmost rage, Through all the sea of harvest rolling round, The billowy plain floats wide; nor can evade, Though pliant to the blast, its seizing force Or whirled in air, or into vacant chaff Shook waste. And sometimes too a burst of rain, Swept from the black horizon, broad, descends In one continuous flood. Still over head The mingling tempest weaves its gloom, and still The deluge deepens; till the fields around Lie sunk, and flatted, in the sordid wave. Sudden, the ditches swell; the meadows swim. Red, from the hills, innumerable streams Tumultuous roar; and high above its bank The river lift; before whose rushing tide, Herds, flocks, and harvests, cottages, and swains, Roll mingled down: all that the winds had spared, In one wild moment ruined; the big hopes, And well-earned treasures, of the painful year. Fled to some eminence, the husbandman, Helpless, beholds the miserable wreck Driving along; his drowning ox at once Descending, with his labors scattered round, He sees; and instant o'er his shivering thought Comes Winter unprovided, and a train Of clamant children dear. Ye masters, then, Be mindful of the rough laborious hand That sinks you soft in elegance and ease; Be mindful of those limbs, in russet clad, Whose toil to yours is warmth and graceful pride; And, oh, be mindful of that sparing board Which covers yours with luxury profuse, Makes your glass sparkle, and your sense rejoice! Nor cruelly demand what the deep rains And all-involving winds have swept away. THE COMING OF THE RAIN. [From Spring.] AT first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, Scarce staining ether; but by fast degrees, In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapor sails Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep, Sits on the horizon round a settled gloom : Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind, And full of every hope and every joy, The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze Into a perfect calm; that not a breath Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods, diffused In glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye where found, It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground: And there a season atween June and May, Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrown'd, A listless climate made, where sooth to say, No living wight could work, ne cared ev'n for play. Was nought around but images of rest: Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest, From poppies breath'd; and beds of pleasant green, sunny glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills, Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills; And vacant shepherds piping in the dale: And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, Or stock-doves 'plain amid the forest deep, That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; And still a coil the grasshopper did keep; Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. Full in the passage of the vale above, A sable, silent, solemn forest stood; Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to move, As Idless fancy'd in her dreaming mood: And up the hills, on either side, a wood Of blackening pines, ay waving to and fro, Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; And where this valley winded out, below, The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, For ever flushing round a summer sky: There eke the soft delights, that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And the calm pleasures always hover'd nigh; But whate'er smack'd of noyance, or unrest, Was far far off expell'd from this delicious nest. ODE. TELL me, thou soul of her I love, Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam, And sometimes share thy lover's woe; Where, void of thee, his cheerless home Can now, alas! no comfort know? Oh! if thou hover'st round my walk, While, under every well-known tree, I to thy fancy'd shadow talk, And every tear is full of thee. Should then the weary eye of grief, Beside some sympathetic stream, In slumber find a short relief, Oh, visit thou my soothing dream! RULE BRITANNIA. WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sang the strain: Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves; Britons never will be slaves. [SON of a small inn-keeper in Crieff Perthshire, where he was born in the year 1700. Attended the College of Aberdeen, and became a tutor in the family of the Duke of Montrose. By his very considerable talents, management, and address, he soon rose in the world. In his latter days he held the office of Keeper of the Book of Entries for the port of London. He died on the 21st of April, 1765.] |