How oft upon yon eminence our pace
Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne 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 discerned The distant plough slow moving, and beside
His labouring team, that swerved not from the track, The sturdy swain diminished to a boy!
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, Conducts the eye along his sinuous course, Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, Stand, never overlooked, our favourite 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 tower, Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells Just undulates upon the listening ear,
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. Scenes must be beautiful, which daily viewed 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; Unnumbered branches waving in the blast, And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once.
Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighbouring 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 soothe and satisfy the human ear.
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The live-long night: nor these alone, whose notes, Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain,
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud, The jay, the pie, and e'en 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 Devised the weather-house, that useful toy! Fearless of humid air and gathering rains, Forth steps the man-an emblem of myself! More delicate his timorous 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 discoveries 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 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; so thick beset
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 such unpleasing sounds, as haunt the ear, In village or in town, the bay of curs
Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained, Oft have I wished 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 site 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 seldom waits, Dependant on the baker's punctual call, To hear his creaking panniers at the door, Angry and sad, and his last crust consumed. So farewell envy of the peasant's nest! If solitude make scant the means of life, Society for me!-thou seeming sweet, Be still a pleasing object in my view; My visit still, but never mine abode.
Not distant far a length of colonnade Invites us. Monument of ancient taste, Now scorned, but worthy of a better fate. Our fathers knew the value of a screen From sultry suns: 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; self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree.
Thanks to Benevolus *-he spares me yet These chesnuts ranged in corresponding lines; And, though himself so polished, still reprieves The obsolete prolixity of shade.
Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast) A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. Hence, ancle deep in moss and flowery thyme, We mount again, and feel at every step Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. 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 summit gained, behold the proud alcove That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures 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 amiss. So strong the zeal t' immortalize himself Beats in the breast of man, that e'en a few Few transient years, won from th' abyss abhorred Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, And even to a clown. Now roves the eye; And posted on this speculative height, Exults in its command. The sheepfold here Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. At first, progressive as a stream, they seek The middle field; but, scattered by degrees, Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. There from the sun-burnt hay-field homeward creeps
* John Courtnay Throckmorton, Esq. of Weston Underwood.
The loaded wain; while, lightened of its charge, The wain that meets it passes swiftly by: The boorish driver leaning o'er his team Vociferous, and impatient of delay.
Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, Diversified with trees of every growth,
Alike, yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine, Within the twilight of their distant shades; There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood Seems sunk, and short'ned to its topmost boughs. No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, And of a wannish gray; the willow such, And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf, And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm; Of deeper green the elm, and deeper still, Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak. Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun, The maple, and the beech, of oily nuts Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve Diffusing odours: nor unnoted pass The sycamore, capricious in attire,
Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright. Over these, but far beyond (a spacious map Of hill and valley interposed between) The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land, Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.
Hence the declivity is sharp and short, And such the re-ascent: between them weeps A little naiad her impoverished urn All summer long, which winter fills again, The folded gates would bar my progress now, But that the lord of this enclosed demesne,
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