Imágenes de página
PDF
ePub

And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire

Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.
Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere,
And that my raptures are not conjur'd up

To serve occasions of poetic pomp,

But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our pace

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
His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track,
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!

Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along its sinuous course
Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank,
Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms,

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,
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells
Just undulates upon the list'ning ear,

Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily view'd,
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that I describe.

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds,
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding shore,

And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;
Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves fast flutt'ring, all at once.
Nor less composure waits upon the roar

Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills that slip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that with a livelier

green
Betrays the secret of their silent course.
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
But animated nature sweeter still,

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,
Once went I forth; and found, till then unknown,
A cottage, whither oft we since repair:

'Tis perch'd upon the green-hill top, but close
Environ'd with a ring of branching elms
That overhang the thatch, itself unseen
Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset

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
In village or in town, the bay of curs

Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,
And infants clam'rous whether pleas'd or pain'd,
Oft have I wish'd the peaceful covert mine.
Here, I have said, at least I should possess
The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge
The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.
Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat
Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.

Its elevated scite 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 seldom waits,
Dependant on the baker's punctual call,

To hear his creaking panniers at the door,

« AnteriorContinuar »