Angry and sad and his last crust consumed.
So farewel 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 fare.
Our fathers knew the value of a screen
From fultry funs, and in their shaded walks
And long-protracted bow'rs, enjoy'd at noon
The gloom and coolness of declining day.
We bear our shades about us; self-depriv'd
Of other screen, the chin umbrella spread,
And range an Indian wafte without a tree.
Thanks to * Benevolus- he spares me yet
John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq. of Wefton Underwood.
These chesnuts ranged in corresponding lines,
And though himself so polish'd, still reprieves
The obsolete prolixity of shade.
Descending now (but cautious, left too fast)
A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge
We pass a gulph in which the willows dip
Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.
Hence ancle deep in moss and flow'ry thyme
We mount again, and feel at ev'ry step
Our foot half funk in hillocks green and soft,
Rais'd by the mole, the miner of the foil.
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 pannels, leaving an obscure rude name
In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.
So strong the zeal t’immortalize himself
Beats in the breast of man, that ev'n a few
Few transient years won from th' abyss abhorr'd
Of blank oblivion, 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 Aeecy tenants o'er the glebe.
At first, progressive as a stream, they seek
The middle field; but scatter'd by degrees
Each to his choice, foon 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
Vocifrous, and impatient of delay.
Nor less attractive is the woodland scene
Diversified with trees of ev'ry growth
Alike
yet various. Here the grey smooth trunks
Of alh, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine,
Within the twilight of their distant shades ;
There loft 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, 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 gloffy-leav'd and shining in the sun,
The maple, and the beech of oily nuts
Prolific, and the line at dewy eve
Diffusing odors : nor unnoted pass
The sycamore, capricious in attire,
green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet Have changed the woods, in scarlet honors bright.
C
O'er
O'er these, but far beyond, (a spacious map
Of hill and valley interpos'd between)
The Oufe, dividing the well-water'd land,
Now glitters in the sun, and now retires,
As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.
Hence the declivity is sharp and short, And such the re-ascent; between them weeps A little Naiad her impov'rish'd urn All summer long, which winter fills again. The folded gates would bar my progress now, But that the Lord of this inclosed demelne, Communicative of the good he owns, Admits me to a share : the guiltless eye Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. Refreshing change ! where now the blazing sun ? By short transition we have lost his glare And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime. Ye fallen avenues ! once more I mourn
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