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.
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