Passes, as oft the ruffian shows his front;
The prey at laft enfnar'd, he dreadful darts,
With rapid glide, along the leaning line;
And, fixing in the wretch his cruel fangs,
Strikes backward grimly pleas'd: the fluttering wing
And fhriller found declare extreme distress,
And ask the helping hospitable hand.
Refounds the living furface of the ground:
Nor undelightful is the ceafelefs hum,
To him who mufes through the woods at noon;
Or drowsy fhepherd, as he lies reclin'd,
With half-fhut eyes, beneath the floating fhade
Of willows grey, close-crowding o'er the brook.
Gradual, from these what numerous kinds defcend, Evading ev'n the microscopic eye!
Full Nature fwarms with life; one wondrous mass
Of animals, or atoms organiz'd,
Waiting the vital Breath, when Parent-Heaven
Shall bid his spirit blow. The hoary fen,
In putrid fteams, emits the living cloud
Of peftilence. Through fubterranean cells,
Where fearching fun-beams fcarce can find a way, 295 Earth animated heaves. The flowery leaf
Wants not its soft inhabitants. Secure,
Within its winding citadel, the stone
Holds multitudes. But chief the foreft-boughs,
That dance unnumber'd to the playful breeze,
The downy orchard, and the melting pulp
Of mellow fruit, the nameless nations feed
Of evanefcent infects. Where the pool
Stands mantled o'er with green, invisible,
Amid the floating verdure millions stray.
Each liquid too, whether it pierces, fooths,
Inflames, refreshes, or exalts the tafte,
With various forms abounds. Nor is the Atream
Of pureft crystal, nor the lucid air,
Though one transparent vacancy it seems,
Void of their unfeen people. Thefe, conceal'd
By the kind art of forming Heaven, escape
The groffer eye of Man: for, if the worlds
In worlds inclos'd fhould on his fenfes burst,
From cates ambrofial, and the nectar'd bowl,
He would abhorrent turn; and in dead night,
When filence fleeps o'er all, be stunn'd with noise.
Let no prefuming impious railer tax
Creative Wisdom, as if aught was form'd
In vain, or not for admirable ends.
Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce
His works unwife, of which the smallest part
Exceeds the narrow vifion of her mind?
As if upon a full-proportion'd dome,
On fwelling columns heav'd, the pride of art!
A critic-fly, whofe feeble ray scarce spreads
An inch around, with blind prefumption bold,
Should dare to tax the ftructure of the whole.
And lives the man, whofe universal eye
Has fwept at once th' unbounded scheme of things;
Mark'd their dependance fo, and firm accord,
As with unfaultering accent to conclude
That this availeth nought? Has any feen
The mighty chain of beings, leffening down
From Infinite Perfection to the brink
Of dreary nothing, defolate abyfs!
From which astonish'd thought, recoiling, turns?
Till then alone let zealous praise ascend,
And hymns of holy wonder, to that Power,
Whose wisdom fhines as lovely on our minds,
As on our finiling eyes his fervant-fun.
Thick in yon ftream of light, a thoufand ways, Upward, and downward, thwarting, and convolv'd, The quivering nations fport; till, tempeft-wing'd, Fierce Winter fweeps them from the face of day. 345 Ev'n fo luxurious men, unheeding, pafs
An idle fummer life in fortune's fhine,
A feafon's glitter! Thus they flutter on
From toy to toy, from vanity to vice;
Till, blown away by death, oblivion comes
Behind, and ftrikes them from the book of life.
Now fwarms the village o'er the jovial mead :
The ruftic youth, brown with meridian toil,
Healthful and strong; full as the fummer rose
Blown by prevailing funs, the ruddy maid,
Half naked, fwelling on the fight, and all
Her kindled graces, burning o'er her cheek.
Ev'n ftooping age is here; and infant-hands
Trail the long rake, or, with the fragrant load
O'ercharg'd, amid the kind oppreffion roll.
Wide flies the tedded grain; all in a row
Advancing broad, or wheeling round the field,
They fpread their breathing harvest to the fun,
That throws refreshful round a rural fmell:
Or, as they rake the green-appearing ground,
And drive the dusky wave along the mead,
The ruffet hay-cock rises thick behind,
In order gay. While, heard from dale to dale,
Waking the breeze, refounds the blended voice
Of 'happy labour, love, and focial glee.
Or rufhing thence, in one diffusive band,
They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog
Compel'd, to where the mazy-running brook
Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high,
And that fair spreading in a pebbled fhore.
Urg'd to the giddy brink, much is the toil,
The clamour much, of men, and boys, and dogs,
Ere the foft fearful people to the flood
Commit their woolly fides. And oft the swain,
On fome impatient feizing, hurls them in:
Embolden'd then, nor hefitating more,
Faft, faft, they plunge amid the flashing wave,
And panting labour to the farthest fhore.
Repeated this, till deep the well-wash'd fleece
Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt
The trout is banish'd by the sordid stream ;
Heavy, and dripping, to the breezy brow
Slow move the harmless race; where, as they spread
Their fwelling treasures to the funny ray,
Inly difturb'd, and wondering what this wild
Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints
The country fill; and, tofs'd from rock to rock,
Inceffant bleatings run around the hills.
At laft, of fnowy white, the gather'd flocks
Are in the wattled pen innumerous prefs'd,
Head above head: and, rang'd in lufty rows,
The shepherds fit, and whet the founding fhears.
The housewife waits to roll her fleecy ftores,
With all her gay-drest maids attending round.
One, chief, in gracious dignity enthron'd,
Shines o'er the reft, the paftoral queen, and rays
Her fmiles, fweet-beaming, on her shepherd-king;
While the glad circle round them yield their fouls
To feftive mirth, and wit that knows no gall.
Meantime, their joyous task goes on apace :
Some mingling ftir the melted tar, and some,
Deep on the new-fhorn vagrant's heaving fide,
To stamp his master's cypher ready stand;
Others th' unwilling wether drag along;
And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy
Holds by the twisted horns th' indignant ram.
Behold where bound, and of its robe bereft,
By needy man, that all-depending lord,
How meek, how patient, the mild creature lies!
What softness in its melancholy face,
What dumb complaining innocence appears!
Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the knife
Of horrid flaughter that is o'er you wav'd;
No, 'tis the tender fwain's well-guided fhears,
Who having now, to pay his annual care,
Borrow'd your fleece, to you a cumbrous load,
Will fend you bounding to your hills again.
A fimple scene! yet hence Britannia fees
|