And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. To serve occasions of poetic pomp, But genuine, and art partner of them all. Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have born The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, While admiration, feeding at the eye, And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd The distant plough slow moving, and beside Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; While far beyond, and overthwart the stream That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, The sloping land recedes into the clouds; Displaying on its varied side the grace Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r, Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds, And lull the spirit while they fill the mind; Of distant floods, or on the softer voice green To sooth and satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The live-long night: nor these alone, whose notes Nice finger'd art must emulate in vain, But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming 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, please highly for their sake. Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought Devis'd the weather-house, 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 soaks the fields, and female feet, Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, The task of new discov'ries falls on me. At such a season, and with such a charge, 'Tis perch'd upon the green-hill top, but close With foliage of such dark redundant growth, I call'd the low-roof'd lodge the peasant's nest. And, hidden as it is, and far remote From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, Its elevated scite forbids the wretch To drink sweet waters of the crystal well; And, heavy-laden, brings his bev'rage home, To hear his creaking panniers at the door, |