Imbrown; a crowded umbrage dusk and dun, Low whisp'ring, lead into their leaf-strown walks, And give the season in its latest view. Meantime, light shadowing all, a sober calm Fleeces unbounded ether: whose least wave Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time, For those whom virtue and whom nature charm, To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, And soar above this little scene of things: O let not, aim'd from some inhuman eye, A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf The forest walks, at ev'ry rising gale, Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields; His annual visit. Half afraid, he first Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights On the warm hearth; then hopping o'er the floor, Eyes all the smiling family askance, And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is : Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, Though timorous of heart, and hard beset By death in various forms, dark snares and dogs, And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kine Eye the bleak heaven, and next, the glist'ning earth, With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dis persed, Dig for the wither'd herb through heaps of snow. * As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce All winter drives along the darken'd air, Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul ! What black despair, what horror, fills his heart! When for the dusky spot which fancy feign'd, His tufted cottage rising through the snow, unknown, What water of the still unfrozen spring, These check his fearful steps, and down he sinks Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,His wife, his children, and his friends, un seen. In vain for him the officious wife prepares nerve The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense, James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. 874.-A HYMN. These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine, Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand, That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring: Flings from the Sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature; hurls the tempests forth; And, as on Earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life. Oh, talk of him in solitary glooms; Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, In mingled clouds to him; whose Sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil As home he goes beneath the joyous Moon. Ye that keep watch in Heaven, as Earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills: ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound: the broad responsive low, Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns; And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song Burst from the groves! and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night his praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, Assembled men, to the deep organ join clear, At solemn pauses, through the swelling base; lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. For me, when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray 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. 876.-ODE. O Nightingale, best poet of the grove, That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee, Blest in the full possession of thy love : O lend that strain, sweet nightingale, to me! 'Tis mine, alas! to mourn my wretched fate: I love a maid who all my bosom charms, Yet lose my days without this lovely mate; Inhuman Fortune keeps her from my arms. You, happy birds! by nature's simple laws Lead your soft lives, sustain'd by Nature's fare; You dwell wherever roving fancy draws, And love and song is all your pleasing care: But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride, Dare not be blest lest envious tongues should blame : And hence, in vain I languish for my bride; O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame. James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. 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. 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! I just may cast my careless eyes James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. 878. THE HAPPY MAN. He's not the Happy Man to whom is given Whose carved mountains bleat, and forests sing; 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; ། |