To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames;
And still remember, nor without regret,
Of hours that forrow fince has much endear'd,
How oft, my flice of pocket store consumed,
Still hungering, penniless, and far from home,
I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws,
Or blushing crabs, or berries, that emboss
The bramble, black as jet, or floes auftere.
Hard fare! but fuch as boyish appetite
Disdains not; nor the palate, undepraved
By culinary arts, unfavoury deems.
No Sofa then awaited my return;
Nor Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs
His wafted spirits quickly, by long toil
Incurring short fatigue; and though our years,
As life declines, speed rapidly away,
And not a year but pilfers as he goes
Some youthful grace, that age would gladly keep;
A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees

Their length and colour from the locks they fpare;
The elastic spring of an unwearied foot,

That mounts the ftile with ease, or leaps the fence,
That play of lungs, inhaling and again
Refpiring freely the fresh air, that makes
Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me,
Mine have not pilfer'd yet; nor yet impair'd
My relish of fair profpect; fcenes that soothed
Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find
Still foothing, and of power to charm me still.
And witness, dear companion of my walks,
Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive
Faft lock'd in mine, with pleasure fuch as love,

Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth
And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire—
Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.
Thou know'ft my praise of nature most sincere,
And that my raptures are not conjured up
To serve occafions of poetic pomp,

But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our pace

Has flacken'd to a pause, and we have borne
The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew,
While Admiration, feeding at the eye,

And still unfated, dwelt upon the scene.

Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd
The distant plough flow moving, and befide
His labouring team, that fwerved not from the track,
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!
Here Oufe, flow winding through a level plain
Of fpacious meads, with cattle fprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along his finuous course
Delighted. There, faft rooted in his bank,
Stand, never overlook'd, our favourite elms,
That screen the herdsman's folitary hut;
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream,
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,
The floping land recedes into the clouds;
Difplaying on its varied fide the grace

Of hedge-row beauties numberlefs, fquare tower,
Tall spire, from which the found of cheerful bells
Juft undulates upon the listening ear;

Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.
Scenes must be beautiful which, daily view'd,
Please daily, and whofe novelty furvives

Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that I describe.

Nor rural fights alone, but rural founds,
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,
That sweep the skirt of some far spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make mufic not unlike
The dash of Ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;
Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves faft fluttering, all at once.
Nor lefs compofure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that flip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grafs, that with a livelier green
Betrays the fecret of their filent course.
Nature inanimate employs fweet founds,
But animated Nature fweeter ftill,
To foothe and fatisfy the human ear.

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
The livelong night: nor these alone, whofe notes
Nice-finger'd Art must emulate in vain,
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim fublime
In still repeated circles, fcreaming loud,
The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl,
That hails the rifing 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 fake.

Peace to the artist, whofe ingenious thought

Devised the weather-house, that useful toy!
Fearless of humid air and gathering rains,
Forth steps the man—an emblem of myself!
More delicate his timorous mate retires.
When Winter foaks the fields, and female feet,
Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,
Or ford the rivulets, are beft 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 fince repair :
'Tis perch'd upon the green hill top, but clofe
Environ'd with a ring of branching elms,
That overhang the thatch, itself unseen,
Peeps at the vale below; fo thick befet
With foliage of such dark redundant growth,
I call'd the low-roof'd lodge the peafant's nest.
And, hidden as it is, and far remote

From fuch unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear
In village or in town, the bay of curs

Inceffant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,
And infants clamorous whether pleafed or pain'd,
Oft have I wish'd the peaceful covert mine.
Here, I have said, at least I should poffefs
The poet's treasure, filence, and indulge
The dreams of fancy, tranquil and fecure.
Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat
Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.

Its elevated fite forbids the wretch

To drink sweet waters of the crystal well;
He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,
And, heavy laden, brings his beverage home,

Far fetch'd and little worth; nor feldom waits,
Dependant on the baker's punctual call,
To hear his creaking panniers at the door,
Angry and fad, and his last crust consumed.
So farewell envy of the peafant's neft!
If folitude 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 tafte,
Now fcorn'd, but worthy of a better fate.
Our fathers knew the value of a screen
From fultry funs; 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; felf-deprived
Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread,
And range an Indian waste without a tree.
Thanks to Benevolus*-he spares me yet
These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines;
And, though himself fo polifh'd, ftill reprieves
The obfolete prolixity of shade.

Descending now (but cautious, left too fast)
A fudden steep upon a ruftic bridge,
We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip
Their pendent boughs, ftooping as if to drink.
Hence, ankle-deep in mofs and flowery thyme,
We mount again, and feel at every step

Our foot half funk in hillocks green and foft,

* John Courtney Throckmorton, Efq. of Wefton Underwood.