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And died, neglected: why the good man's share
HYMN ON THE SEASONS THESE, as they change, ALMIGHTY FATHER, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; And every sense, and every heart is joy. Then comes the glory in the Summer months, With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year : And oft The voice in dreadful thunder speaks : And oft at dawn, deep noon, and falling eve, By brooks and groves, and hollow-whispering gales Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfin'd, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In Winter awful Thoo! with clouds and storms Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll’d. Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing, Riding sublime, Thou bidst the world adore, And humblest Nature with the northern blast. .
Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine, Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combin’d ; Shade, unperceiv'd, so softening into shade; And all so forming an harmonious whole ; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not Thes, 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;
Nature, attend ! join every living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join'd; and, ardent, raise One general song! Tollim, ye vocal gales, Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes : Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms! | Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, Who shake th' astonish'd world, lift high to heaven 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; Ye softer floods, that lead the hunnid maze Along the vale; and thou, niajestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound His stupendous praise; whose greater voice 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 paints. Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to HIM! Breathe your stili song into the reaper's heart, As home he goes beneatb the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in Heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day! best image here below Of thy CREATOR, ever pouring wide, From world to world the vital ocean round, . On Nature write with every beam His praise. The thunder rolls : be hush'd the prostrate world : While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound: the broad responsive lowe, 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.
Should fate command me to the farthest verge
In the void waste as in the city full;
DESCRIPTION OF THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.
The rooms with costly tapestry were hung,
And taught charm'd echo to resound their smart, Whilc flocks, woods, streams, around, repose and peace im
Those pleas’d the most where, by a cunning hand,
And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed :
Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls,
Each sound, too, here to languishment inclin'd,
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares,
A certain music, never known before,
The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight,
Ah me! what hand can touch the string so fine?
And now a graver sacred strain they stole,
As when seraphic hands a hymn impart;
Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state,
Composing inusic bade his dreams be fair,
Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran
Yet the least entrance found they none at all, Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall.
And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams, Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace, O'er which was shadowy cast Elysian gleams, That play'd, in waving lights, from place to place, And shed a roseate smile on Nature's face. Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array, So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space.
A CHARACTER IN THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. Of all the gentle tenants of the place, There was a man of special grave remark : A certain tender gloom o’erspread his face, Pensive, not sad; in thought involv'd, not dark ; As soot this man could sing as morning lark, And teach the noblest morals of the heart : But these his talents were yburied stark;
Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, Which or boon nature gave, or nature-painting art. .
To noontide shades incontinent he ran,