Exceeds the narrow vision of her mind? As if upon a full proportion'd dome,
On swelling columns heaved, the pride of art! A critic fly, whose feeble ray scarce spreads An inch around, with blind presumption bold, Should dare to tax the structure of the whole. And lives the man, whose universal eye Has swept at once the unbounded scheme things;
Mark'd their dependance so, and firm accord, As with unfaltering accent to conclude That this availeth nought? Has any seen The mighty chain of beings, lessening down From Infinite Perfection to the brink Of dreary nothing, desolate abyss!
Embolden'd then, nor hesitating more, Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing wave, And panting labour to the farthest shore. Repeated this, till deep the well-wash'd fleece Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt, The trout is banish'd by the sordid stream; Heavy, and dripping, to the breezy brow Slow move the harmless race: where, as they sprea Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray, Inly disturb'd, and wondering what this wild Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints The country fill; and, toss'd from rock to rock, Incessant bleatings run around the hills. At last, of snowy white, the gather'd flocks Are in the wattled pen innumerous press'd,
From which astonish'd thought, recoiling, turns? Head above head: and ranged in lusty rows
Till then alone let zealous praise ascend, And hymns of holy wonder, to that Power, Whose wisdom shines as lovely on our minds, As on our smiling eyes his servant-sun.
Thick in yon stream of light, a thousand ways, Upward, and downward, thwarting, and convolved, The quivering nations sport; till, tempest-wing'd, Fierce Winter sweeps them from the face of day. E'en so luxurious men, unheeding, pass An idle summer life in fortune's shine, A season's glitter! thus they flutter on From toy to toy, from vanity to vice; Till, blown away by death, oblivion comes Behind, and strikes them from the book of life. Now swarms the village o'er the jovial mead: The rustic youth, brown with meridian toil, Healthful and strong; full as the summer-rose Blown by prevailing suns, the ruddy maid, Half naked, swelling on the sight, and all Her kindled graces burning o'er her cheek. E'en stooping age is here; and infant hands Trail the long rake, or, with the fragrant load O'ercharged, amid the kind oppression roll. Wide flies the tedded grain; all in a row Advancing broad, or wheeling round the field, They spread the breathing harvest to the sun, That throws refreshful round a rural smell: Or, as they rake the green-appearing ground, And drive the dusky wave along the mead, The russet hay-cock rises thick behind, In order gay. While heard from dale to dale, Waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice Of happy labour, love, and social glee.
Or rushing thence, in one diffusive band, They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog Compell'd, to where the mazy-running brook Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high, And that fair-spreading in a pebbled shore. Urged to the giddy brink, much is the toil, The clamour much, of men, and boys, and dogs, Ere the soft fearful people to the flood Commit their woolly sides. And oft the swain, On some impatient seizing, hurls them in:
The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears. The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores, With all her gay-drest maids attending round. One, chief, in gracious dignity enthroned, Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherd-king; While the glad circle round them yield their souls To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall. Meantime, their joyous task goes on apace: Some mingling stir the melted tar, and some, Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side, To stamp the master's cypher ready stand; Others the unwilling wether drag along; And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy Holds by the twisted horns the indignant ram. Behold where bound, and of its robe bereft, By needy man, that all-depending lord, How meek, how patient, the mild creature lies! What softness in its melancholy face, What dumb complaining innocence appears! Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the knife Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved; No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears, Who having now, to pay his annual care, Borrow'd your fleece, to you a cumbrous load, Will send you bounding to your hills again.
A simple scene! yet hence Britannia sees Her solid grandeur rise: hence she commands The exalted stores of every brighter clime, The treasures of the sun without his rage: Hence, fervent all, with culture, toil, and arts, Wide glows her land: her dreadful thunder hence Rides o'er the waves sublime, and now, e'en now, Impending hangs o'er Gallia's humbled coast; Hence rules the circling deep, and awes the world,
'Tis raging noon; and, vertical, the sun Darts on the head direct his forceful rays. O'er heaven and earth, far as the ranging eye Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all From pole to pole is undistinguish'd blaze. In vain the sight, dejected, to the ground Stoops for relief; thence hot-ascending steams And keen reflection pain. Deep to the root
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