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15. But from mouutain, dell, or stream,

Not a flutt'ring zeplıyr springs; Fearful lest the noontide beam

Scorch its soft, its silken wings.

16. Not a leaf has leave to stir,

Nature's lullid-serene--and still! Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,

Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.

17. Languid is the landscape round,

Till the fresh-descending shower, Grateful to the thirsty ground,

Raises ev'ry fainting flower.

18. Now the hill - the hedge-is green,

Now the warblers' throats in tune; Blithsome is the verdant scene,

Brighten'd by the beams of Noon!

EVENING

19. O'er the heath the heifer strays

Free ;-(the furrow'd task is done) Now the village windows blaze,

Burnish'd by the setting sun.

20. Now he sets behind the hill,

Sinking from a golden sky; Can the pencil's mimic skill

Copy the refulgent dye?

21. Trudging as the ploughmen go

(To the smoking hamlet bound) Giant-like their shadows grow,

Length’ning o'er the level ground.

22. Where the rising forest spreads

Shelter for the lordly dome, To their high-built airy beds

See the rooks returning home.

23. As the lark with vary'd tune

Carols to the evening loud, Mark the mild resplendent moon

Breaking through a parted cloud !

24. Now the hermit howlet peeps

From the barn or twisted brake; And the blue mist slowly creeps,

Curling on the silver lake.

25.
As the trout, in speckled pride,

Playful from its bosom springs;
To the banks a ruffled tide

Verges in successive rings.

26.
Tripping through the silken grass,

O’er the path-divided dale,
Mark the rose-complexion'd lass

With her well-pois'd milking pail.

27.
Linnets with unnumber'd notes,

And the cuckow bird with two,
Tuning sweet their mellow throats

Bid the setting sun adieu.

HYMN.

FROM THOMSON'S SEASONS.

Tuese,

as they change, Almighty Father! these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; And every sense and every heart is joy.

Then comes Thy glory in the Summer-months,
With light and heat refulgent. Theu Thy sun
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year
And oft’ Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks;
And ost at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales.
Thy bounty shines in Autunin unconfin'd,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
In Winter awful Thou! with clouds and storms.
Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rollid,
Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing
Riding sublime, Thou bidd'st the world adore,
And humblest nature with thy northern blast.

Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train,
Yet so delightful mix’d, with such kind art,
Such beauty and beneficence combin’d;
Shade, unperceiv'd, so soft'ning into shade;
And all so forming an harmonious whole,
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still.
But wandering oft', with brute-unconscious gaze,
Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty band
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres;
Works in the secret deep; shoots, streaming, thence
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring;
Flings from the sun direct the flaning day;
Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth;
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life.

Nature, attend! join every living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join, and, ardent, raise One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales! Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes; Oh talk of him in solitary glooms! Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely-waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. And ye, whose bolder note is heard afaru Who shake th’astonish'd world, lift high to heaven Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye Brooks, attune, ye trembling Rills! And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong Torrents, rapid and profound; Ye softer floods, that lead the humid ma Along the vale; and thou, majestic Main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound His stupendous praise; whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, Herbs, and Fruits, and Flowers, In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. Ye Forests, bend; ye Harvests, wave to Him; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.

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