That mounts the ftile with ease, or leaps the fence,
That play of lungs, inhaling and again
Refpiring freely the fresh air, that makes
Swift pace or steep afcent no toil to me,
Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impaired
My relish of fair profpect; fcenes that foothed
Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find
Still foothing, and of power to charm me still.
And witnefs, dear companion of my walks,
Whofe arm this twentieth winter I perceive
Faft locked in mine, with pleasure fuch as love,
Confirmed by long experience of thy worth
And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire-
Witness a joy that thou haft doubled long.
Thou knoweft my praise of nature moft fincere,
And that my raptures are not conjured up
To serve occafions of poetic pomp,

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

Has flackened to a pause, and we have borne
The ruffling wind, scarce confcious that it blew,
While admiration, feeding at the eye,

And ftill unfated, dwelt upon the scene.

Thence with what pleasure have we juft difcerned
The diftant plough slow moving, and befide

His labouring team, that swerved not from the track,

The sturdy fwain diminished to a boy!
Here Oufe, flow winding through a level plain
Of fpacious meads with cattle sprinkled over,
Conducts the eye along his finuous courfe
Delighted. There, faft rooted in their bank,
Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms,
That screen the herdsman's folitary hut;
While far beyond, and overthwart the ftream
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,
The floping land recedes into the clouds ;
Displaying on its varied fide the grace

Of hedge-row beauties numberlefs, fquare tower,
Tall fpire, from which the found of cheerful bells
Juft undulates upon the listening ear,

Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which daily viewed
Please daily, and whofe novelty furvives
Long knowledge and the fcrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that defcribe.

Nor rural fights alone, but rural founds,
Exhilarate the fspirit, and restore

The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,
That sweep the skirt of fome far-fpreading wood
Of ancient growth, make mufic not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding fhore,

And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;
Unnumbered branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves faft fluttering, all at once.
Nor lefs composure waits upon the roar
Of diftant floods, or on the fofter voice

Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that flip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grafs, that with a livelier green
Betrays the fecret of their filent course.
Nature inanimate employs fweet founds,
But animated nature sweeter ftill,

To footh and fatisfy the human ear.

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
The livelong night: nor these alone, whose notes
Nice fingered art must emulate in vain,

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim fublime
In still repeated circles, fcreaming loud,

The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl,
That hails the rifing moon, have charms for me.
Sounds inharmonious in them(elves and harfh,
Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,
And only there, please highly for their fake.

Peace to the artift, whose ingenious thought Devised the weather-house, that useful toy !

Fearless of humid air and gathering rains,
Forth fteps the man-an emblem of myself!
More delicate his timorous mate retires.

When Winter foaks the fields, and female feet,
Too weak to ftruggle with tenacious clay,
Or ford the rivulets, are beft at home,
The task of new difcoveries falls on me.

At fuch a season, and with fuch a charge,

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

'Tis perched upon the green-hill top,
but clofe
Environed with a ring of branching elms,
That overhang the thatch, itfelf unfeen
Peeps at the vale below; fo thick befet
With foliage of fuch 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 car
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 leaft I should poffefs
The poet's treasure, filence, 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 fcite forbids the wretch

To drink sweet waters of the crystal 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 seeming sweet,
Be ftill a pleafing object in my view;
My vifit ftill, but never mine abode.

Not diftant far, a length of colonnade
Invites us. Monument of ancient tafte,
Now scorned, 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 coolnefs 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.