Just undulates upon the list❜ning ear, Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, 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 music 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 fast flutt'ring, all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In matted grass, that with a livelier green Betrays the secret of their silent course. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, But animated nature sweeter still, To sooth and satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought Devis'd the weatherhouse, that useful toy! Fearless of humid air and gath'ring rains, Forth steps the man-an emblem of myself! More delicate his tim'rous mate retires. When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet, Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, The task of new discov'ries 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 since repair: 'Tis perch'd upon the green hill top, but close From such unpleasing sounds, as haunt the ear Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, It's elevated site forbids the wretch To drink sweet waters of the crystal well; To hear his creaking panniers at the door, Not distant far, a length of colonnade * John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq. of Weston Underwood. Descending now (but cautious, lest 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 sunk in hillocks green and soft, Rais'd by the mole, the miner of the soil. 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 it's 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; |