Unnumber'd 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 15. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, But animated Nature sweeter still
To soothe and satisfy the human ear. X
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day 16, and one 200 The livelong night: nor these alone whose notes Nice-finger'd art must emulate in vain,
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud, The jay, the pie, and even 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;
By their onward lapse
Betray to sight the motion of the stream
-Were slunk all but the wakeful nightingale.
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 perch'd upon the green-hill top, but close Environ'd 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 call'd the low-roof'd 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 pain'd, Oft have I wish'd the peaceful covert mine. Here, I have said, at least I should possess
The poet's treasure "7, 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;
To ease and silence every Muse's son.
Silence is the rest of the soul, and refreshes invention.
He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,
And heavy-laden brings his beverage home, Far-fetch'd and little worth; nor seldom waits, Dependent 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 scorn'd, 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, enjoy'd 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 19; he spares me yet These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines, And though himself so polish'd, still reprieves The obsolete prolixity of shade.
Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast,) A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge
18 Where summer's beauty midst of winter stays, And winter's coolness spite of summer's rays. Pope. Imit. of Cowley.
19 John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq. of Weston Under
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 gain'd, behold the proud alcove That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures The grand retreat from injuries impress'd By rural carvers, who with knives deface The panels, leaving an obscure rude name In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. So strong the zeal to immortalize himself Beats in the breast of man, that even a few Few transient years won from the abyss abhorr'd Of blank oblivion 22, seem a glorious prize, And even to a clown. Now roves the eye, And posted on this speculative height Exults in its command. The sheep-fold here Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. At first, progressive as a stream, they seek The middle field; but scatter'd by degrees
A willow grows ascant the brook
There on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang. Hamlet, Act iv. Sc. 7.
21 Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply.
22 For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey
Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land.
There, from the sun-burnt hay-field homeward creeps The loaded wain, while lighten'd 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 grey 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 shorten'd 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 grey; the willow such And poplar 23, 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
23 From haunted spring, and dale
Edged with poplar pale.
To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve.
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