Come, gentle Spring! ethereal Mildness! come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
O Hertford, fitted or to shine in courts With unaffected grace, or walk the plain With innocence and meditation join'd In soft assemblage, listen to my song,
Which thy own Season paints; when Nature all Is blooming and benevolent, like thee.
And see where surly Winter passes off,
Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts:
His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,
The shatter'd forest, and the ravaged vale;
While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch,
Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,
The mountains lift their green heads to the sky.
As yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd,
And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets Deform the day delightless: so that scarce The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulf'd,
To shake the sounding marsh; or from the shore The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath,
And sing their wild notes to the listening waste At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun,
And the bright Bull receives him.
Then no more The expansive atmosphere is cramp'd with cold But, full of life and vivifying soul,
Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads then thin,
Fleecy, and white, o'er all-surrounding heaven.
Forth fly the tepid airs: and unconfined,
Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays.
Joyous, the impatient husbandman perceives Relenting Nature, and his lusty steers Drives from their stalls, to where the well used plough Lies in the furrow, loosen'd from the frost.
There, unrefusing, to the harness'd yoke They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil,
Cheer'd by the simple song and soaring lark.
Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share The master leans, removes the obstructing clay,
Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe While through the neighbouring fields the sowe stalks,
With measured step, and liberal throws the grain Into the faithful bosom of the ground;
The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene.
Be gracious,
Heaven! for now laborious Man Has done his part.
Ye fostering breezes, blow!
Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend!
And temper all, thou world-reviving sun,
Into the perfect year!
Nor ye who live In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride,
Think these lost themes unworthy of your ear:
Such themes as these the rural Maro sung To wide-imperial Rome, in the full height Of elegance and taste, by Greece refined.
In ancient times the sacred plough employ'd The kings and awful fathers of mankind:
And some, with whom compared your insect-tribes Are but the beings of a summer's day,
Have held the scale of empire, ruled the storm Of mighty war; then, with unwearied hand,
Disdaining little delicacies, seized The plough, and greatly independent lived.
Ye generous Britons, venerate the plough!
And o'er your hills, and long withdrawing vales,
Let Autumn spread his treasures to the sun,
Luxuriant and unbounded: as the sea,
Far through his azure turbulent domain,
Your empire owns, and from a thousand shores Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports;
So with superior boon may your rich soil,
Exuberant,
Nature's better blessings pour O'er every land, the naked nations clothe,
And be the exhaustless granary of a world!
Nor only through the lenient air this change,
Delicious, breathes; the penetrative sun,
His force deep-darting to the dark retreat Of vegetation, sets the steaming Power At large, to wander o'er the verdant earth,
In various hues; but chiefly thee, gay green!
Thou smiling Nature's universal robe!
United light and shade! where the sight dwells With growing strength, and ever-new delight.
From the moist meadow to the wither'd hill,
Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs,
And swells, and deepens, to the cherish'd eye.
The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees,
Till the whole leafy forest stands display'd,
In full luxuriance to the sighing gales;
Where the deer rustle through the twining brake,
And the birds sing conceal'd.
At once array'd In all the colours of the flushing year,
By Nature's swift and secret working hand,
The garden glows, and fills the liberal air With lavish fragrance; while the promised fruit Lies yet a little embryo, unperceived,
Within its crimson folds.
Now from the town Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps,
Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields,
Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze Of sweetbriar hedges I pursue my walk;
Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend Some eminence,
Augusta, in thy plains,
And see the country, far diffused around,
One boundless blush, one white-empurpled shower Of mingled blossoms; where the raptured eye Hurries from joy to joy, and, hid beneath The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies. If, brush'd from Russian wilds, a cutting gale Rise not, and scatter from his humid wings The clammy mildew; or, dry-blowing, breathe Untimely frost; before whose baleful blast The full-blown Spring through all her foliage shrinks,
Joyless and dead, a wide-dejected waste.
For oft, engender'd by the hazy north,
Myriads on myriads, insect armies warp Keen in the poison'd breeze; and wasteful eat,
Through buds and bark, into the blacken'd core,
Their eager way.
A feeble race! yet oft The sacred sons of vengeance; on whose course Corrosive Famine waits, and kills the year.
To check this plague, the skilful farmer chaff And blazing straw before his orchard burns;
Till, all involved in smoke, the latent foe From every cranny suffocated falls:
Or scatters o'er the blooms the pungent dust Of pepper, fatal to the frosty tribe:
Or, when the envenom'd leaf begins to curl,
With sprinkled water drowns them in their nest;
Nor, while they pick them up with busy bill,
The little trooping birds unwisely scares.
Be patient, swains; these cruel seeming winds Blow not in vain.
Far hence they keep repress'd Those deepening clouds on clouds, surcharged with rain,
That o'er the vast Atlantic hither borne,
In endless train, would quench the summer-blaze,
And, cheerless, drown the crude unripen'd year.
The north-east spends his rage; he now shut up Within his iron cave, the effusive south Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of Heaven Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent.
At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise,
Scarce staining ether; but by swift degrees,
In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep Sits on the horizon round a settled gloom:
Not such as wintry-storms on mortals shed,
Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind,
And full of every hope and every joy,
The wish of Nature.
Gradual sinks the breeze Into a perfect calm; that not a breath Is heard to quiver through the closing woods,
Or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves Of aspin tall.
The' uncurling floods, diffused In glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all And pleasing expectation.
Herds and flocks Drop the dry sprig, and mute-imploring eye The falling verdure.
Hush'd in short suspense,
The plumy people streak their wings with oil,
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off:
And wait the approaching sign to strike, at once,
Into the general choir.
E'en mountains, vales,
And forests seem, impatient, to demand The promised sweetness.
Man superior walks Amid the glad creation, musing praise,
And looking lively gratitude.
At last,
The clouds consign their treasures to the fields;
And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow,
In large effusion, o'er the freshened world.
The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard,
By such as wander through the forest walks,
Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves.
But who can hold the shade, while Heaven descends In universal bounty, shedding herbs,
And fruits, and flowers, on Nature's ample lap?
Swift Fancy fired anticipates their growth;
And, while the milky nutriment distils,
Beholds the kindling country colour round.
Thus all day long the full-distended clouds Indulge their genial stores, and well-shower'd earth Is deep enrich'd with vegetable life;
Till, in the western sky, the downward sun Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam.
The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes The illumined mountain, through the forest streams,
Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist,
Far smoking o'er the interminable plain,
In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems.
Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around.
Full swell the woods; their every music wakes,
Mix'd in wild concert with the warbling brooks Increased, the distant bleatings of the hills,
And hollow lows responsive from the vales,
Whence blending all the sweeten'd zephyr springs.
Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud,
Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow Shoots up immense; and every hue unfolds,
In fair proportion running from the red To where the violet fades into the sky.
Here, awful Newton, the dissolving clouds Form, fronting on the sun, thy showery prism;
And to the sage instructed eye unfold The various twine of light, by thee disclosed From the white mingling maze.
Not so the boy;
He wondering views the bright enchantment bend,
Delightful o'er the radiant fields, and runs To catch the falling glory; but amazed Beholds the amusive arch before him fly,
Then vanish quite away.
Still night succeeds,
A softened shade, and saturated earth Awaits the morning-beam, to give to light,
Raised through ten thousand different plastic tubes,
The balmy treasures of the former day.
Then spring the living herbs, profusely wild,
O'er all the deep-green earth, beyond the power Of botanist to number up their tribes:
Whether he steals along the lonely dale,
In silent search; or through the forest, rank With what the dull incurious weeds account,
Bursts his blind way; or climbs the mountain rock,
Fired by the nodding verdure of its brow.
With such a liberal hand has Nature flung Their seeds abroad, blown them about in winds,
Innumerous mix'd them with the nursing mould,
The moistening current, and prolific rain.
But who their virtues can declare? who pierce,
With vision pure, into these secret stores Of health, and life, and joy? the food of Man,
While yet he lived in innocence, and told A length of golden years; unflesh'd in blood,
A stranger to the savage arts of life,
Death, rapine, carnage, surfeit, and disease;
The lord, and not the tyrant, of the world.
The first fresh dawn then waked the gladden'd race Of uncorrupted Man, nor blush'd to see The sluggard sleep beneath its sacred beam;
For their light slumbers gently fumed away;
And up they rose as vigorous as the sun,
Or to the culture of the willing glebe,
Or to the cheerful tendance of the flock.
Meantime the song went round; and dance and sport,
Wisdom and friendly talk, successive, stole Their hours away: while in the rosy vale Love breath'd his infant sighs, from anguish free,
And full replete with bliss; save the sweet pain,
That inly thrilling, but exalts it more.
Not yet injurious act, nor surly deed,
Was known among those happy sons of Heaven;
For reason and benevolence were law.
Harmonious Nature too look'd smiling on.
Clear shone the skies, cool'd with eternal gales,
And balmy spirit all.
The youthful sun Shot his best rays, and still the gracious clouds Dropp'd fatness down; as o'er the swelling mead The herds and flocks, commixing, play'd secure.
This when, emergent from the gloomy wood,
The glaring lion saw, his horrid heart Was meeken'd, and he join'd his sullen joy;
For music held the whole in perfect peace:
Soft sigh'd the flute; the tender voice was heard,
Warbling the varied heart; the woodlands round Applied their quire; and winds and waters flow'd In consonance.
Such were those prime of days.
But now those white unblemish'd manners, whence The fabling poets took their golden age,
Are found no more amid these iron times.
These dregs of life! now the distemper'd mind Has lost that concord of harmonious powers,
Which forms the soul of happiness; and all Is off the poise within: the passions all Have burst their bounds; and reason half extinct,
Or impotent, or else approving, sees The foul disorder.
Senseless, and deform'd,
Convulsive anger storms at large; or pale,
And silent, settles into fell revenge.
Base envy withers at another's joy,
And hates that excellence it cannot reach.
Desponding fear, of feeble fancies full,
Weak and unmanly, loosens every power.
E'en love itself is bitterness of soul,
A pensive anguish pining at the heart;
Or, sunk to sordid interest, feels no more That noble wish, that never cloy'd desire,
Which, selfish joy disdaining, seeks alone To bless the dearer object of its flame.
Hope sickens with extravagance; and grief,
Of life impatient, into madness swells;
Or in dead silence wastes the weeping hours.
These, and a thousand mixt emotions more,
From ever changing views of good and ill,
Form'd infinitely various, vex the mind With endless storm: whence, deeply rankling, grows The partial thought, a listless unconcern,
Cold, and averting from our neighbour's good;
Then dark disgust, and hatred, winding wiles,
Coward deceit, and ruffian violence:
At last, extinct each social feeling, fell And joyless inhumanity pervades And petrifies the heart.
Nature disturb'd Is deem'd vindictive, to have chang'd her course.
Hence, in old dusky time, a deluge came:
When the deep-cleft disparting orb, that arch'd The central waters round, impetuous rush'd,
With universal burst, into the gulf,
And o'er the high-piled hills of fractured earth Wide dash'd the waves, in undulation vast;
Till, from the centre to the streaming clouds,
A shoreless ocean tumbled round the globe.
The Seasons since have, with severer sway,
Oppress'd a broken world: the Winter keen Shook forth his waste of snows; and Summer shot His pestilential heats.
Great Spring, before,
Green'd all the year; and fruits and blossoms blush'd,
In social sweetness, on the selfsame bough.
Pure was the temperate air; an even calm Perpetual reign'd, save what the zephyrs bland Breathed o'er the blue expanse: for then nor storms Were taught to blow, nor hurricanes to rage;
Sound slept the waters; no sulphureous glooms Swell'd in the sky, and sent the lightning forth;
While sickly damps and cold autumnal fogs Hung not, relaxing, on the springs of life.
But now, of turbid elements the sport,
From clear to cloudy tost, from hot to cold,
And dry to moist, with inward-eating change,
Our drooping days are dwindled down to nought,
Their period finish'd ere 'tis well begun.
And yet the wholesome herb neglected dies;
Though with the pure exhilarating soul Of nutriment and health, and vital powers,
Beyond the search of art, 'tis copious blest.
For, with hot ravine fired, ensanguined man Is now become the lion of the plain,
And worse.
The wolf, who from the nightly fold Fierce drags the bleating prey, ne'er drunk her milk,
Nor wore her warming fleece: nor has the steer,
At whose strong chest the deadly tiger hangs,
E'er plough'd for him.
They too are temper'd high,
With hunger stung and wild necessity;
Nor lodges pity in their shaggy breast.
But man, whom Nature form'd of milder clay,
With every kind emotion in his heart,
And taught alone to weep; while from her lap She pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs,
And fruits, as numerous as the drops of rain Or beams that gave them birth: shall he, fair form!
Who wears sweet smiles, and looks erect on Heaven,
E'er stoop to mingle with the prowling herd,
And dip his tongue in gore?
The beast of prey,
Blood-stain'd, deserves to bleed: but you, ye flocks,
What have you done; ye peaceful people, what,
To merit death? you, who have given us milk In luscious streams, and lent us your own coat Against the Winter's cold? and the plain ox,
That harmless, honest, guileless animal,
In what has he offended? he, whose toil,
Patient and ever ready, clothes the land With all the pomp of harvest; shall he bleed,
And struggling groan beneath the cruel hands E'en of the clown he feeds? and that, perhaps,
To swell the riot of the autumnal feast,
Won by his labour?
Thus the feeling heart Would tenderly suggest: but 'tis enough,
In this late age, adventurous, to have touch'd Light on the numbers of the Samian sage.
High Heaven forbids the bold presumptuous strain,
Whose wisest will has fix'd us in a state That must not yet to pure perfection rise.
Now when the first foul torrent of the brooks,
Swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away,
And, whitening, down their mossy-tinctured stream Descends the billowy foam: now is the time,
While yet the dark-brown water aids the guile,
To tempt the trout.
The well-dissembled fly,
The rod fine-tapering with elastic spring,
Snatch'd from the hoary steed the floating line,
And all thy slender watry stores prepare.
But let not on thy hook the tortured worm,
Convulsive, twist in agonizing folds;
Which, by rapacious hunger swallow'd deep,
Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast Of the weak helpless uncomplaining wretch,
Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.
When with his lively ray the potent sun Has pierced the streams, and roused the finny-race,
Then, issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair;
Chief should the western breezes curling play,
And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds,
High to their fount, this day, amid the hills,
And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks;
The next, pursue their rocky-channel'd maze,
Down to the river, in whose ample wave Their little naiads love to sport at large.
Just in the dubious point, where with the pool Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank Reverted plays in undulating flow,
There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly;
And as you lead it round in artful curve,
With eye attentive mark the springing game.
Straight as above the surface of the flood They wanton rise, or urged by hunger leap,
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook:
Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank,
And to the shelving shore slow dragging some,
With various hand proportion'd to their force.
If yet too young, and easily deceived,
A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod,
Him, piteous of his youth and the short space He has enjoy'd the vital light of Heaven,
Soft disengage, and back into the stream The speckled captive throw.
But should you lure From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook,
Behoves you then to ply your finest art.
Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly;
And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.
At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death,
With sullen plunge.
At once he darts along,
Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthened line;
Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed,
The cavern'd bank, his old secure abode;
And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool,
Indignant of the guile.
With yielding hand,
That feels him still, yet to his furious course Gives way, you, now retiring, following now Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage:
Till floating broad upon his breathless side,
And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore You gaily drag your unresisting prize.
Thus pass the temperate hours; but when the sun Shakes from his noon-day throne the scattering clouds,
Even shooting listless langour through the deeps;
Then seek the bank where flowering elders crowd,
Where scatter'd wild the lily of the vale Its balmy essence breathes, where cowslips hang The dewy head, where purple violets lurk,
With all the lowly children of the shade:
Or lie reclined beneath yon spreading ash,
Hung o'er the steep; whence, borne on liquid wing,
The sounding culver shoots; or where the hawk,
High, in the beetling cliff, his eyry builds.
There let the classic page thy fancy lead Through rural scenes; such as the Mantuan swain Paints in the matchless harmony of song.
Or catch thyself the landscape, gliding swift Athwart imagination's vivid eye:
Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd,
And lost in lonely musing, in the dream,
Confused, of careless solitude, where mix Ten thousand wandering images of things,
Soothe every gust of passion into peace;
All but the swellings of the soften'd heart,
That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind.
Behold yon breathing prospect bids the Muse Throw all her beauty forth.
But who can paint Like Nature?
Can imagination boast,
Amid its gay creation, hues like hers?
Or can it mix them with that matchless skill,
And lose them in each other, as appears In every bud that blows?
If fancy then Unequal fails beneath the pleasing task,
Ah, what shall language do?
Ah, where find words Tinged with so many colours; and whose power,
To life approaching, may perfume my lays With that fine oil, those aromatic gales,
That inexhaustive flow continual round?
Yet, though successless, will the toil delight.
Come then, ye virgins and ye youths, whose hearts Have felt the raptures of refining love;
And thou,
Amanda, come, pride of my song!
Form'd by the Graces, loveliness itself!
Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet,
Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul,
Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd,
Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart:
Oh come! and while the rosy-footed May Steals blushing on, together let us tread The morning dews, and gather in their prime Fresh-blooming flowers, to grace thy braided hair,
And thy loved bosom that improves their sweets.
See, where the winding vale its lavish stores,
Irriguous, spreads.
See, how the lily drinks The latent rill, scarce oozing through the grass,
Of growth luxuriant; or the humid bank,
In fair profusion, decks.
Long let us walk,
Where the breeze blows from yon extended field Of blossom'd beans.
Arabia cannot boast A fuller gale of joy, than, liberal, thence Breathes through the sense, and takes the ravished soul.
Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot,
Full of fresh verdure, and unnumber'd flowers,
The negligence of Nature, wide, and wild;
Where, undisguised by mimic Art, she spreads Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.
Here their delicious task the fervent bees,
In swarming millions, tend: around, athwart,
Through the soft air, the busy nations fly,
Cling to the bud, and, with inserted tube,
Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul;
And oft, with bolder wing, they soaring dare The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows,
And yellow load them with the luscious spoil.
At length the finish'd garden to the view Its vistas opens, and its alleys green.
Snatch'd through the verdant maze, the hurried eye Distracted wanders; now the bowery walk Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day Falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted sweeps:
Now meets the bending sky; the river now Dimpling along, the breezy ruffled lake,
The forest darkening round, the glittering spire,
The ethereal mountain, and the distant main.
But why so far excursive? when at hand,
Along these blushing borders, bright with dew,
And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers,
Fair-handed spring unbosoms every grace;
Throws out the snowdrop and the crocus first;
The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue,
And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes;
The yellow wall-flower, stain'd with iron brown;
And lavish stock that scents the garden round:
From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed,
Anemones; auriculas, enriched With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves;
And full ranunculas, of glowing red.
Then comes the tulip-race, where Beauty plays Her idle freaks; from family diffused To family, as flies the father-dust,
The varied colours run; and, while they break On the charm'd eye, the exulting florist marks,
With secret pride, the wonders of his hand.
No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud,
Firstborn of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes:
Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white,
Low-bent, and blushing inward; nor jonquils,
Of potent fragrance; nor Narcissus fair,
As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still;
Nor broad carnations, nor gay-spotted pinks;
Nor, shower'd from every bush, the damask-rose.
Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells,
With hues on hues expression cannot paint,
The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom.
Hail,
Source of Being!
Universal Soul Of Heaven and earth!
Essential Presence, hail!
To Thee I bend the knee; to Thee my thoughts,
Continual, climb; who, with a master-hand,
Hast the great whole into perfection touched.
By Thee the various vegetative tribes,
Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves,
Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew:
By Thee disposed into congenial soils,
Stands each attractive plant, and sucks, and swells The juicy tide; a twining mass of tubes.
At Thy command the vernal sun awakes The torpid sap, detruded to the root By wintry winds; that now in fluent dance,
And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads All this innumerous-colour'd scene of things.
As rising from the vegetable world My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend,
My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the woods Invite you forth in all your gayest trim.
Lend me your song, ye nightingales! oh, pour The mazy-running soul of melody Into my varied verse! while I deduce,
From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings,
The symphony of Spring, and touch a theme Unknown to fame,—the passion of the groves.
When first the soul of love is sent abroad,
Warm through the vital air, and on the heart Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin,
In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing;
And try again the long-forgotten strain,
At first faint-warbled.
But no sooner grows The soft infusion prevalent, and wide,
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows In music unconfined.
Up-springs the lark,
Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messenger of morn;
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts Calls up the tuneful nations.
Every copse Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads Of the coy quiristers that lodge within,
Are prodigal of harmony.
The thrush And wood-lark, o'er the kind-contending throng Superior heard, run through the sweetest length Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns To let them joy, and purposes, in thought Elate, to make her night excel their day.
The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake;
The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove:
Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze Pour'd out profusely, silent.
Join'd to these Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix Mellifluous.
The jay, the rook, the daw,
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone,
Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove breathes A melancholy murmur through the whole. 'Tis love creates their melody, and all This waste of music is the voice of love;
That even to birds, and beasts, the tender arts Of pleasing teaches.
Hence the glossy kind Try every winning way inventive love Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates Pour forth their little souls.
First, wide around,
With distant awe, in airy rings they rove,
Endeavouring by a thousand tricks to catch The cunning, conscious, half-averted glance Of the regardless charmer.
Should she seem Softening the least approvance to bestow,
Their colours burnish, and by hope inspired,
They brisk advance; then, on a sudden struck,
Retire disorder'd; then again approach;
In fond rotation spread the spotted wing,
And shiver every feather with desire.
Connubial leagues agreed, to the deep woods They haste away, all as their fancy leads,
Pleasure, or food, or secret safety prompts;
That Nature's great command may be obey'd:
Nor all the sweet sensations they perceive Indulged in vain.
Some to the holly-hedge Nestling repair, and to the thicket some;
Some to the rude protection of the thorn Commit their feeble offspring.
The cleft tree Offers its kind concealment to a few,
Their food its insects, and its moss their nests.
Others apart far in the grassy dale,
Or roughening waste, their humble texture weare.
But most in woodland solitudes delight,
In unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks,
Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,
Whose murmurs soothe them all the live-long day,
When by kind duty fix'd.
Among the roots Of hazel, pendent o'er the plaintive stream,
They frame the first foundation of their domes;
Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,
And bound with clay together.
Now 'tis nought But restless hurry through the busy air,
Beat by unnumber'd wings.
The swallow sweeps The slimy pool, to build his hanging house Intent.
And often, from the careless back Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills Pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserved,
Steal from the barn a straw: till soft and warm,
Clean and complete, their habitation grows.
As thus the patient dam assiduous sits,
Not to be tempted from her tender task,
Or by sharp hunger, or by smooth delight,
Though the whole loosen'd Spring around her blows,
Her sympathizing lover takes his stand High on the opponent bank, and ceaseless sings The tedious time away; or else supplies Her place a moment, while she sudden flits To pick the scanty meal.
The appointed time With pious toil fulfill'd, the callow young,
Warm'd and expanded into perfect life,
Their brittle bondage break, and come to light,
A helpless family, demanding food With constant clamour:
O what passions then,
What melting sentiments of kindly care,
On the new parents seize!
Away they fly Affectionate, and undesiring bear The most delicious morsel to their young;
Which equally distributed, again The search begins.
Even so a gentle pair,
By fortune sunk, but form'd of generous mould,
And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breast,
In some lone cot amid the distant woods,
Sustain'd alone by providential Heaven,
Oft, as they weeping eye their infant train,
Check their own appetites, and give them all.
Nor toil alone they scorn: exalting love,
By the great Father of the Spring inspired,
Gives instant courage to the fearful race,
And to the simple art.
With stealthy wing,
Should some rude foot their woody haunts molest,
Amid a neighbouring bush they silent drop,
And whirring thence, as if alarm'd, deceive The unfeeling schoolboy.
Hence, around the head Of wandering swain, the white-wing'd plover wheels Her sounding flight, and then directly on In long excursion skims the level lawn,
To tempt him from her nest.
The wild-duck, hence,
O'er the rough moss, and o'er the trackless waste The heath-hen flutters, pious fraud! to lead The hot pursuing spaniel far astray.
Be not the Muse ashamed, here to bemoan Her brothers of the grove, by tyrant Man Inhuman caught, and in the narrow cage From liberty confined, and boundless air.
Dull are the pretty slaves, their plumage dull,
Ragged, and all its brightening lustre lost;
Nor is that sprightly wildness in their notes,
Which, clear and vigorous, warbles from the beech.
O then, ye friends of love and love-taught song,
Spare the soft tribes, this barbarous art forbear;
If on your bosom innocence can win,
Music engage, or piety persuade.
But let not chief the nightingale lament Her ruin'd care too delicately framed To brook the harsh confinement of the cage.
Oft when, returning with her loaded bill,
The astonish'd mother finds a vacant nest,
By the hard hand of unrelenting clowns Robb'd, to the ground the vain provision falls;
Her pinions ruffle, and low-drooping scarce Can bear the mourner to the poplar shade;
Where, all abandon'd to despair, she sings Her sorrows through the night; and, on the bough,
Sole-sitting, still at every dying fall Takes up again her lamentable strain Of winding woe; till, wide around, the woods Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound.
But now the feather'd youth their former bounds,
Ardent, disdain; and, weighing oft their wings,
Demand the free possession of the sky:
This one glad office more, and then dissolves Parental love at once, now needless grown.
Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain.
Tis on some evening, sunny, grateful, mild,
When nought but balm is breathing through the woods,
With yellow lustre bright, that the new tribes Visit the spacious heavens, and look abroad On Nature's common, far as they can see,
Or wing, their range and pasture.
O'er the boughs Dancing about, still at the giddy verge Their resolution fails; their pinions still,
In loose libration stretch'd, to trust the void Trembling refuse: till down before them fly The parent guides, and chide, exhort, command,
Or push them off.
The surging air receives Its plumy burden; and their self-taught wings Winnow the waving element.
On ground Alighted, bolder up again they lead,
Farther and farther on, the lengthening flight;
Till vanish'd every fear, and every power Roused into life and action, light in air The acquitted parents see their soaring race,
And once rejoicing never know them more.
High from the summit of a craggy cliff,
Hung o'er the deep, such as amazing frowns On utmost Kilda's shore, whose lonely race Resign the setting sun to Indian worlds,
The royal eagle draws his vigorous young,
Strong-pounced, and ardent with paternal fire.
Now fit to raise a kingdom of their own,
He drives them from his fort, the towering seat,
For ages, of his empire; which, in peace,
Unstain'd he holds, while many a league to sea He wings his course, and preys in distant isles.
Should I my steps turn to the rural seat,
Whose lofty elms, and venerable oaks,
Invite the rook, who high amid the boughs,
In early Spring, his airy city builds,
And ceaseless caws amusive; there, well-pleased,
I might the various polity survey Of the mix'd household kind.
The careful hen Calls all her chirping family around,
Fed and defended by the fearless cock;
Whose breast with ardour flames, as on he walks,
Graceful, and crows defiance.
In the pond,
The finely checker'd duck, before her train,
Rows garrulous.
The stately-sailing swan Gives out his snowy plumage to the gale;
And, arching proud his neck, with oary feet Bears forward fierce, and guards his osier-isle,
Protective of his young.
The turkey nigh,
Loud-threatening, reddens; while the peacock spreads His every-colour'd glory to the sun,
And swims in radiant majesty along.
O'er the whole homely scene, the cooing dove Flies thick in amorous chase, and wanton rolls The glancing eye, and turns the changeful neck.
While thus the gentle tenants of the shade Indulge their purer loves, the rougher world Of brutes, below, rush furious into flame,
And fierce desire.
Through all his lusty veins The bull, deep-scorch'd, the raging passion feels.
Of pasture sick, and negligent of food,
Scarce seen, he wades among the yellow broom,
While o'er his ample sides the rambling spray Luxuriant shoot; or through the mazy wood Dejected wanders, nor the inticing bud Crops, though it presses on his careless sense.
And oft, in jealous madening fancy wrapt,
He seeks the fight; and, idly-butting, feigns His rival gored in every knotty trunk.
Him should he meet, the bellowing war begins:
Their eyes flash fury; to the hollow'd earth,
Whence the sand flies, they mutter bloody deeds,
And groaning deep, the impetuous battle mix:
While the fair heifer, balmy-breathing, near,
Stands kindling up their rage.
The trembling steed,
With this hot impulse seized in every nerve,
Nor heeds the rein, nor hears the sounding thong;
Blows are not felt; but tossing high his head,
And by the well-known joy to distant plains Attracted strong, all wild he bursts away;
O'er rocks, and woods, and craggy mountains flies;
And, neighing, on the aërial summit takes The exciting gale; then, steep-descending, cleaves The headlong torrents foaming down the hills,
E'en where the madness of the straiten'd stream Turns in black eddies round: such is the force With which his frantic heart and sinews swell.
Nor undelighted by the boundless Spring Are the broad monsters of the foaming deep:
From the deep ooze and gelid cavern roused,
They flounce and tumble in unwieldy joy.
Dire were the strain, and dissonant to sing The cruel raptures of the savage kind:
How by this flame their native wrath sublimed,
They roam, amid the fury of their heart,
The far-resounding waste in fiercer bands,
And growl their horrid loves.
But this the theme I sing, enraptured, to the British Fair,
Forbids, and leads me to the mountain-brow,
Where sits the shepherd on the grassy turf,
Inhaling, healthful, the descending sun.
Around him feeds his many-bleating flock,
Of various cadence; and his sportive lambs,
This way and that convolved, in friskful glee,
Their frolics play.
And now the sprightly race Invites them forth; when swift, the signal given,
They start away, and sweep the massy mound That runs around the hill; the rampart once Of iron war, in ancient barbarous times,
When disunited Britain ever bled,
Lost in eternal broil: ere yet she grew To this deep-laid indissoluble state,
Where Wealth and Commerce lift their golden heads;
And o'er our labours,
Liberty and Law,
Impartial, watch; the wonder of a world!
What is this mighty breath, ye sages, say,
That, in a powerful language, felt, not heard,
Instructs the fowls of Heaven; and through their breast These arts of love diffuses?
What, but God?
Inspiring God! who boundless Spirit all,
And unremitting Energy, pervades,
Adjusts, sustains, and agitates the whole.
He ceaseless works alone; and yet alone Seems not to work: with such perfection framed Is this complex stupendous scheme of things.
But, though conceal'd, to every purer eye The informing Author in his works appears:
Chief, lovely Spring, in thee, and thy soft scenes,
The Smiling God is seen; while water, earth,
And air attest his bounty; which exalts The brute creation to this finer thought,
And annual melts their undesigning hearts Profusely thus in tenderness and joy.
Still let my song a nobler note assume,
And sing the infusive force of Spring on man;
When heaven and earth, as if contending, vie To raise his being, and serene his soul.
Can he forbear to join the general smile Of Nature?
Can fierce passions vex his breast,
While every gale is peace, and every grove Is melody? hence! from the bounteous walks Of flowing Spring, ye sordid sons of earth,
Hard, and unfeeling of another's woe;
Or only lavish to yourselves; away!
But come, ye generous minds, in whose wide thought,
Of all his works, creative Bounty burns With warmest beam; and on your open front And liberal eye, sits, from his dark retreat Inviting modest Want.
Nor, till invoked,
Can restless goodness wait: your active search Leaves no cold wintry corner unexplored;
Like silent-working Heaven, surprising oft The lonely heart with unexpected good.
For you the roving spirit of the wind Blows Spring abroad; for you the teeming clouds Descend in gladsome plenty o'er the world;
And the sun sheds his kindest rays for you,
Ye flower of human race! in these green days,
Reviving Sickness lifts her languid head;
Life flows afresh; and young-eyed Health exalts The whole creation round.
Contentment walks The sunny glade, and feels an inward bliss Spring o'er his mind, beyond the power of kings To purchase.
Pure serenity apace Induces thought, and contemplation still.
By swift degrees the love of Nature works,
And warms the bosom; till at last sublimed To rapture, and enthusiastic heat,
We feel the present Deity, and taste The joy of God to see a happy world!
These are the sacred feelings of thy heart,
Thy heart inform'd by reason's purer ray,
O Lyttelton, the friend! thy passions thus And meditations vary, as at large,
Courting the Muse, through Hagley Park thou stray'st;
The British Tempé! there along the dale,
With woods o'erhung, and shagg'd with mossy rocks,
Whence on each hand the gushing waters play,
And down the rough cascade white-dashing fall,
Or gleam in lengthened vista through the trees,
You silent steal; or sit beneath the shade Of solemn oaks, that tuft the swelling mounts Thrown graceful round by Nature's careless hand,
And pensive listen to the various voice Of rural peace: the herds, the flocks, the birds,
The hollow-whispering breeze, the plaint of rills,
That, purling down amid the twisted roots Which creep around, their dewy murmurs shake On the soothed ear.
From these abstracted oft,
You wander through the philosophic world;
Where in bright train continual wonders rise,
Or to the curious or the pious eye.
And oft, conducted by historic truth,
You tread the long extent of backward time:
Planning, with warm benevolence of mind,
And honest zeal unwarp'd by party-rage,
Britannia's weal; how from the venal gulf To raise her virtue, and her arts revive.
Or, turning thence thy view, these graver thougths The Muses charm: while, with sure taste refined,
You draw the inspiring breath of ancient song;
Till nobly rises, emulous, thy own.
Perhaps thy loved Lucinda shares thy walk,
With soul to thine attuned.
Then Nature all Wears to the lover's eye a look of love;
And all the tumult of a guilty world,
Tost by ungenerous passions, sinks away.
The tender heart is animated peace;
And as it pours its copious treasures forth,
In varied converse, softening every theme,
You, frequent-pausing, turn, and from her eyes,
Where meeken'd sense, and amiable grace,
And lively sweetness dwell, enraptured, drink That nameless spirit of ethereal joy,
Unutterable happiness! which love,
Alone, bestows, and on a favour'd few.
Meantime you gain the height, from whose fair brow The bursting prospect spreads immense around:
And snatch'd o'er hill and dale, and wood and lawn,
And verdant field, and darkening heath between,
And villages embosom'd soft in trees, And spiry towns by surging columns mark'd Of household smoke, your eye excursive roams:
Wide-stretching from the hall, in whose kind haunt The Hospitable Genius lingers still,
To where the broken landscape, by degrees,
Ascending, roughens into rigid hills;
O'er which the Cambrian mountains, like far clouds That skirt the blue horizon, dusky rise.
Flush'd by the spirit of the genial year,
Now from the virgin's cheek a fresher bloom Shoots, less and less, the live carnation round;
Her lips blush deeper sweets; she breathes of youth;
The shining moisture swells into her eyes,
In brighter flow; her wishing bosom heaves,
With palpitations wild; kind tumults seize Her veins, and all her yielding soul is love.
From the keen gaze her lover turns away,
Full of the dear ecstatic power, and sick With sighing languishment.
Ah then, ye fair!
Be greatly cautious of your sliding hearts:
Dare not the infectious sigh; the pleading look,
Down-cast and low, in meek submission dress'd,
But full of guile.
Let not the fervent tongue,
Prompt to deceive, with adulation smooth,
Gain on your purposed will.
Nor in the bower,
Where woodbines flaunt, and roses shed a couch,
While Evening draws her crimson curtains round,
Trust your soft minutes with betraying Man.
And let the aspiring youth beware of love,
Of the smooth glance beware; for 'tis too late,
When on his heart the torrent-softness pours;
Then wisdom prostrate lies, and fading fame Dissolves in air away; while the fond soul,
Wrapp'd in gay visions of unreal bliss,
Still paints the illusive form; the kindling grace;
The inticing smile; the modest-seeming eye,
Beneath whose beauteous beams, belying Heaven,
Lurk searchless cunning, cruelty, and death:
And still false-warbling in his cheated ear,
Her siren voice, enchanting, draws him on To guileful shores, and meads of fatal joy.
E'en present, in the very lap of love Inglorious laid; while music flows around,
Perfumes, and oils, and wine, and wanton hours;
Amid the roses fierce Repentance rears Her snaky crest: a quick returning pang Shoots through the conscious heart; where honour still,
And great design, against the oppressive load Of luxury, by fits, impatient heave.
But absent, what fantastic woes, aroused,
Rage in each thought, by restless musing fed,
Chill the warm cheek, and blast the bloom of life?
Neglected fortune flies; and sliding swift,
Prone into ruin fall his scorn'd affairs. 'Tis nought but gloom around: the darken'd sun Loses his light.
The rosy-bosom'd Spring To weeping fancy pines; and yon bright arch,
Contracted, bends into a dusky vault.
All Nature fades extinct: and she alone,
Heard, felt, and seen, possesses every thought,
Fills every sense, and pants in every vein.
Books are but formal dulness, tedious friends;
And sad amid the social band he sits,
Lonely, and unattentive.
From his tongue The unfinish'd period falls: while borne away On swelling thought, his wafted spirit flies To the vain bosom of his distant fair;
And leaves the semblance of a lover, fix'd In melancholy site, with head declined,
And love-dejected eyes.
Sudden he starts,
Shook from his tender trance, and restless runs To glimmering shades, and sympathetic glooms;
Where the dun umbrage o'er the falling stream, Romantic, hangs; there through the pensive dusk Strays, in heart-thrilling meditation lost,
Indulging all to love: or on the bank Thrown, amid drooping lilies, swells the breeze With sighs unceasing, and the brook with tears.
Thus in soft anguish he consumes the day,
Nor quits his deep retirement, till the Moon Peeps through the chambers of the fleecy east,
Enlightened by degrees, and in her train Leads on the gentle Hours; then forth he walks,
Beneath the trembling languish of her beam,
With soften'd soul, and woos the bird of eve To mingle woes with his: or, while the world And all the sons of Care lie hush'd in sleep,
Associates with the midnight shadows drear;
And, sighing to the lonely taper, pours His idly-tortured heart into the page,
Meant for the moving messenger of love;
Where rapture burns on rapture, every line With rising frenzy fired.
But if on bed Delirious flung, sleep from his pillow flies.
All night he tosses, nor the balmy power In any posture finds; till the grey Morn Lifts her pale lustre on the paler wretch,
Exanimate by love: and then perhaps Exhausted Nature sinks a while to rest,
Still interrupted by distractèd dreams,
That o'er the sick imagination rise,
And in black colours paint the mimic scene.
Oft with the enchantress of his soul he talks;
Sometimes in crowds distress'd; or if retired To secret winding flower-enwoven bowers,
Far from the dull impertinence of Man,
Just as he, credulous, his endless cares Begins to lose in blind oblivious love,
Snatch'd from her yielded hand, he knows not how,
Through forests huge, and long untravel'd heaths With desolation brown, he wanders waste,
In night and tempest wrapp'd: or shrinks aghast,
Back, from the bending precipice; or wades The turbid stream below, and strives to reach The farther shore; where succourless, and sad,
She with extended arms his aid implores;
But strives in vain; borne by the outrageous flood To distance down, he rides the ridgy wave,
Or whelm'd beneath the boiling eddy sinks.
These are the charming agonies of love,
Whose misery delights.
But through the heart Should jealousy its venom once diffuse, 'Tis then delightful misery no more,
But agony unmix'd incessant gall,
Coroding every thought, and blasting all Love's paradise.
Ye fairy prospects, then,
Ye beds of roses, and ye bowers of joy,
Farewell! ye gleamings of departed peace,
Shine out your last! the yellow-tinging plague Internal vision taints, and in a night Of livid gloom imagination wraps.
Ah then! instead of love-enliven'd cheeks,
Of sunny features, and of ardent eyes With flowing rapture bright, dark looks succeed Suffused and glaring with untender fire;
A clouded aspect, and a burning cheek,
Where the whole poison'd soul, malignant, sits,
And frightens love away.
Ten thousand fears Invented wild, ten thousand frantic views Of horrid rivals, hanging on the charms For which he melts in fondness, eat him up With fervent anguish, and consuming rage.
In vain reproaches lend their idle aid,
Deceitful pride, and resolution frail,
Giving false peace a moment.
Fancy pours,
Afresh, her beauties on his busy thought,
Her first endearments twining round the soul,
With all the witchcraft of ensnaring love.
Straight the fierce storm involves his mind anew Flames through the nerves, and boils along the veins;
While anxious doubt distracts the tortured heart For e'en the sad assurance of his fears Were ease to what he feels.
Thus the warm youth Whom love deludes into his thorny wilds,
Through flowery tempting paths, or leads a life Of fever'd rapture or of cruel care;
His brightest aims extinguish'd all, and all His lively moments running down to waste.
But happy they! the happiest of their kind!
Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. 'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws,
Unnatural oft and foreign to the mind,
That binds their peace, but harmony itself,
Attuning all their passions into love;
Where friendship full-exerts her softest power,
Perfect esteem enliven'd by desire Ineffable, and sympathy of soul;
Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will,
With boundless confidence: for nought but love Can answer love, and render bliss secure.
Let him, ungenerous, who, alone intent To bless himself, from sordid parents buys The loathing virgin, in eternal care,
Well-merited, consume his nights and days:
Let barbarous nations, whose inhuman love Is wild desire, fierce as the suns they feel;
Let eastern tyrants, from the light of Heaven,
Seclude their bosom-slaves, meanly possess'd Of a mere lifeless, violated form:
While those whom love cements in holy faith,
And equal transport, free as Nature live,
Disdaining fear.
What is the world to them,
Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all?
Who in each other clasp whatever fair High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish;
Something than beauty dearer, should they look Or on the mind, or mind-illumined face;
Truth, goodness, honour, harmony, and love,
The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven.
Meantime a smiling offspring rises round,
And mingles both their graces.
By degrees,
The human blossom blows; and every day,
Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm,
The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom.
Then infant reason grows apace, and calls For the kind hand of an assiduous care.
Delightful task! to rear the tender thought,
To teach the young idea how to shoot,
To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind,
To breathe the enlivening spirit, and to fix The generous purpose in the glowing breast.
Oh, speak the joy! ye, whom the sudden tear Surprises often, while you look around,
And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss,
All various Nature pressing on the heart:
An elegant sufficiency, content,
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Ease and alternate labour, useful life,
Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven!
These are the matchless joys of virtuous love;
And thus their moments fly.
The Seasons thus,
As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll,
Still find them happy; and consenting Spring Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads:
Till evening comes at last, serene and mild;
When after the long vernal day of life,
Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells With many a proof of recollected love,
Together down they sink in social sleep;
Together freed, their gentle spirits fly To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.
Et nunc omnis ager, nunc omnis parturit arbos,
Nunc frondent silvæ, nunc formosissimus annus.
RG.
Dedication:
TO
HE
HT
LE
HE
SS OF
RD.
NT.
The subject proposed.
Inscribed to the Countess of Hertford.
The Season is described as it affects the various parts of Nature, ascending from the lower to the higher; with digressions arising from the subject.
Its influence on inanimate Matter, on Vegetables, on brute Animals, and last on Man; concluding with a dissuasive from the wild and irregular passion of Love, opposed to that of a pure and happy kind.
