James Thomson

In one diffusive band,
They drive the troubled flocks, by many a
Compell'd to where the mazy-running
Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high,

Let no presuming impious railer tax Creative wisdom, as if aught was
In vain, or not for admirable ends
Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce His works unwise, of which the smallest
Excceeds the narrow vision of her mind

He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting gems,
Into his freshened soul; her genial
He full enjoys; and not a beauty
And not an opening blossom breathes in vain

Oh
knew he but his happiness, of
The happiest he, who, far from public rage,
Deep in the vale, with a choice few

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found

Beauty deserves the homage of the muse:
Shall mine, rebellious, the dear theme refuse
No; while my breast respires the vital air,
Wholly I am devoted to the fair

The lovely young Lavinia once had friends;
And fortune smiled deceitful on her birth:
For, in her helpless years deprived of all,
Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven,

Confess'd from yonder slow-extinguish'd clouds,
All ether softening, sober Evening
Her wonted station in the middle air;
She sends on earth; then that of deeper

The hoop, the darling justly of the fair,
Of every generous swain deserves the care
It is unmanly to desert the weak,'Twould urge a stone, if possible, to speak;
To hear stanch hypocrites bawl out and cry,"This hoop's a whorish...

Shook sudden from the bosom of the sky,
A thousand shapes, or glide athwart the dusk,
Or stalk majestic on
Deep-roused,

But see the fading many-colour'd woods,
Shade deepening over shade, the country
Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk, and dun,
Of every hue, from wan declining

Unless with my Amanda bless'd,
In vain I twine the woodbine bower;
Unless to deck her sweeter breast,
In vain I rear the breathing flower

Come, gentle Spring
ethereal Mildness
come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,

Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on; the Doric reed once more,
Well pleased,

What is the task that to the muse belongs
What but to deck in her harmonious songs The beauteous works of nature and of art,
Rural retreats that cheer the heavy heart
Then Marle Field begin, my muse, and sing;

The north-east spends his rage; he now shut
Within his iron cave, th' effusive
Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of
Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent