15. But from mountain, dell, or stream, Not a flutt'ring zephyr springs; Fearful lest the noontide beam Scorch its soft, its silken wings. 16. Not a leaf has leave to stir, Nature's lull'd-serene-and still! Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur, Sleeping on the heath-clad hill. 17. Languid is the landscape round, Till the fresh-descending shower, Grateful to the thirsty ground, Raises ev'ry fainting flower. 18. Now the hill-the hedge-is green, Now the warblers' throats in tune; Blithsome is the verdant scene, Brighten'd by the beams of Noon! EVENING. 19. O'ER the heath the heifer strays Free;-(the furrow'd task is done) Now the village windows blaze, Burnish'd by the setting sun. 20. Now he sets behind the hill, 21. Trudging as the ploughmen go Length'ning o'er the level ground. 22. Where the rising forest spreads To their high-built airy beds 23. As the lark with vary'd tune 24. Now the hermit howlet peeps From the barn or twisted brake; And the blue mist slowly creeps, 25. As the trout, in speckled pride, Playful from its bosom springs; To the banks a ruffled tide Verges in successive rings. .26. Tripping through the silken grass, With her well-pois'd milking pail. 27. Linnets with unnumber'd notes, And the cuckow bird with two, HYMN. FROM THOMSON'S SEASONS. THESE, as they change, Almighty Father! these Then comes Thy glory in the Summer months, Nature, attend! join every living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join, and, ardent, raise One genera! song! To Him, ye vocal gales! Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely-waving pine Who shake th' astonished world, lift high to heaven Ye headlong Torrents, rapid and profound; Ye softer Floods that lead the humid maze Along the vale; and thou, majestic 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, waye to Him; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, As home he goes beneath 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. |