A cottage, whither oft we fince repair:
'Tis perched upon the green-hill top, but close
Environed with a ring of branching elms,
That overhang the thatch, itself unseen
Peeps at the vale below; fo thick befet
With foliage of such dark redundant growth
I called the low-roofed lodge the peasant's nest.
And, hidden as it is, and far remote
From fuch unpleafing founds, as haunt the ear
In village or in town, the bay of curs
Inceffant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,
And infants clamorous whether pleafed or pained,
Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine.
Here, I have faid, at least I fhould poffefs
The poet's treasure, filence, and indulge
The dreams of fancy, tranquil and fecure.
Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat
Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.
Its elevated fcite forbids the wretch
To drink fweet waters of the cryftal well;
He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,
And, heavy-laden, brings his beverage home,
Far fetched and little worth; nor feldom waits,
Dependant on the baker's punctual call,
To hear his creaking panniers at the door,
Angry and fad, and his laft cruft confumed.
So farewell envy of the peasant's nest!
If folitude make fcant the means of life,
Society for me!-thou feeming sweet,
Be ftill a pleafing object in my view;
My vifit ftill, but never mine abode.
Not distant far, a length of colonnade
Invites us. Monument of ancient tafte,
Now fcorned, but worthy of a better fate.
Our fathers knew the value of a screen
From fultry funs: and, in their shaded walks
And long protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon
The gloom and coolness of declining day.
We bear our shades about us; felf-deprived
Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread,
And range an Indian wafte without a tree.
Thanks to Benevolus-he spares me yet
These chefnuts ranged in corresponding lines;
And, though himself fo polished, still reprieves
The obfolete prolixity of fhade.
* John Courtnay Throckmorton, Efq. of Wefton Underwood.
Defcending now (but cautious, left too faft)
A fudden fleep, upon a rustic bridge
We pafs a gulph, in which the willows dip
Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.
Hence, ancle deep in mofs and flowery thyme,
We mount again, and feel at every step
Our foot half funk in hillocks green and soft,
Raised by the mole, the miner of the foil.
He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,
Disfigures earth: and, plotting in the dark,
Toils much to earn a monumental pile,
That may record the mischiefs he has done.
The fummit gained, behold the proud alcove That crowns it! yet not all its pride fecures The grand retreat from injuries impressed By rural carvers, who with knives deface The pannels, leaving an obscure, rude name In characters uncouth, and spelt amifs. So ftrong the zeal to immortalize himself
Beats in the breast of man, that even a few
Few tranfient years, won from the abyss abhorred
Of blank oblivion, feem a glorious prize,
And even to a clown. Now roves the eye;
And pofted on this fpeculative height,
Exults in its command. The sheep-fold here
Pours out its fleecy tenants over the glebe.
At first, progreffive as a ftream, they leek
The middle field; but, fcattered by degrees,
Each to his choice, foon whiten all the land.
There from the fun-burnt hay-field homeward
The loaded wain; while, lightened of its charge, The wain that meets it paffes fwiftly by; The boorish driver leaning over his team Vociferous, and impatient of delay. Nor lefs attractive is the woodland scene, Diverfified with trees of every growth, Alike, yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks Of afh, or lime, or beech, diftinctly shine, Within the twilight of their diftant fhades; There, loft behind a rifing ground, the wood Seems funk, and fhortened to its topmoft boughs. No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar; paler fome, And of a wannifh gray; the willow fuch, And poplar, that with filver lines his leaf, And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm;
Of deeper green the elm; and deeper ftill,
Lord of the woods, the long-furviving oak.
Some gloffy-leaved, and fhining in the fun,
The maple, and the beech of oily nuts
Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve
Diffusing odours: nor unnoted pass
The fycamore, capricious in attire,
Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet
Have changed the woods, in fcarlet honours bright.
Over thefe, but far beyond (a fpacious map
Of hill and valley interpofed between),
The Oufe, dividing the well-watered land,
Now glitters in the fun, and now retires,
As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.
Hence the declivity is fharp and fhort,
And such the re-ascent: between them weeps
A little naiad her impoverished urn
All fummer long, which winter fills again.
The folded gates would bar my progrefs now,
But that the lord of this enclosed demefne,
Communicative of the good he owns,
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