Stand, never overlook'd, our favourite elms That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; While far beyond and overthwart the stream That as with molten glass inlays the vale, The sloping land recedes into the clouds ; Displaying on its varied side the grace
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells Just undulates upon the listening ear; Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. Scenes must be beautiful which daily view'd Please daily 13, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years. Praise justly due to those that I describe.
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 fluttering, all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighbouring 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 15. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, But animated Nature sweeter still To soothe and satisfy the human ear.
13 Hæc placuit semel, et decies repetita placebit. Hor.
14 Sustain, Thou only canst, the sick of heart, Restore their languid spirits, and recall
Their lost affections unto thee and thine.
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The livelong night: nor these alone whose notes Nice-finger'd art must emulate in vain, But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud, The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl That hails the rising 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 sake.
Peace to the artist, whose 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 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 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 since repair:
'Tis perch'd upon the green-hill top, but close Environ'd with a ring of branching elms That overhang the thatch, itself unseen, Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset With foliage of such dark redundant growth,
I call'd the low-roof'd lodge the peasant's nest. And hidden as it is, and far remote
From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear
In village or in town, the bay of curs
Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, And infants clamorous whether pleased or pain'd, Oft have I wish'd the peaceful covert mine. Here, I have said, at least I should possess The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge
Were slunk all but the wakeful nightingale. Par. Lost, iv. 601.
To ease and silence every Muse's son. Pope. Hor. ii. 2.
Silence is the rest of the soul, and refreshes invention. Lord Bacon.
The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat Dearly obtains the refuge it affords. Its elevated site 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 seldom waits, Dependent on the baker's punctual call, To hear his creaking panniers at the door, Angry and sad, and his last crust consumed. So farewell 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 fate. Our fathers knew the value of a screen From sultry suns, 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; self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree. Thanks to Benevolus1; he spares me yet These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines, And though himself so polish'd, still reprieves The obsolete prolixity of shade.
Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast,) A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge We pass a gulf in which the willows.20 dip Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.
18 Where summer's beauty midst of winter stays, And winter's coolness spite of summer's rays.
19 John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq. of Weston Underwood.
A willow grows ascant the brook.
There on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
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