That cultivation glories in, are his.
He sets the bright procession on its way, And marshals all the order of the year.
He marks the bounds which winter may not pass, And blunts his pointed fury. In its case Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ Uninjured, with inimitable art,
And ere one flowery season fades and dies Designs the blooming wonders of the next. Some say that in the origin of things, When all creation started into birth,
The infant elements received a law
From which they swerve not since. That under force Of that controling ordinance they move,
And need not his immediate hand, who first Prescribed their course, to regulate it now. Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God The encumbrance of his own concerns, and spare The great Artificer of all that moves The stress of a continual act, the pain Of unremitted vigilance and care, As too laborious and severe a task. So man the moth, is not afraid it seems To span Omnipotence, and measure might That knows no measure, by the scanty rule And standard of his own, that is to-day, And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down. But how should matter occupy a charge Dull as it is, and satisfy a law
So vast in its demands, unless impell'd
To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force,
And under pressure of some conscious cause? The Lord of all, himself through all diffused,
Sustains and is the life of all that lives. Nature is but a name for an effect Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire By which the mighty process is maintain'd, Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sight Slow-circling ages are as transient days; Whose work is without labour, whose designs No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts, And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. Him blind antiquity profaned, not served, With self-taught rites and under various names, Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan,
And Flora and Vertumnus; peopling earth
With tutelary goddesses and gods
That were not, and commending as they would To each some province, garden, field, or grove. But all are under One. One spirit-His Who bore the platted thorns with bleeding brows, Rules universal nature. Not a flower
But shows some touch in freckle, streak or stain, Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires Their balmy odours and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. Happy who walks with him! whom what he finds Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower, Or what he views of beautiful or grand In Nature, from the broad majestic oak To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, Prompts with remembrance of a present God. His presence who made all so fair, perceived, Makes all still fairer. As with him no scene
Is dreary, so with him all seasons please 12. Though winter had been none had man been true, And earth be punished for its tenant's sake, Yet not in vengeance; as this smiling sky So soon succeeding such an angry night, And these dissolving snows 13, and this clear stream Recovering fast its liquid music, prove.
Who then that has a mind well strung and tuned To contemplation, and within his reach
A scene so friendly to his favourite task, Would waste attention at the chequer'd board 1, His host of wooden warriors to and fro Marching and counter-marching, with an eye As fixt as marble, with a forehead ridged And furrow'd into storms, and with a hand Trembling, as if eternity were hung In balance on his conduct of a pin 1? Nor envies he aught more their idle sport Who pant with application misapplied To trivial toys, and pushing ivory balls Across the velvet level, feel a joy
12 With thee conversing I forget all time, All seasons and their change all please alike. Pur. Lost, iv. 637.
13 Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost.
14 Turpe est difficiles habere nugas. Martial.
15 Or if he [Alexander] played at chess, what string of his soul was not touched by this idle and childish game! I hate and avoid it because it is not play enough; it is too grave and serious a diversion, and I am ashamed to lay out as much thought and study upon that as would serve to much better uses.-Montaigne, (Cotton's), i. 50.
Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds Its destined goal of difficult access.
Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noon To Miss, the Mercer's plague, from shop to shop Wandering, and littering with unfolded silks The polished counter, and approving none, Or promising with smiles to call again. Nor him, who by his vanity seduced
And soothed into a dream that he discerns
The difference of a Guido from a daub,
Frequents the crowded auction. Station'd there As duly as the Langford of the show, With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand,
And tongue accomplished in the fulsome cant And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease, Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls He notes it in his book, then raps his box, Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate That he has let it pass,-but never bids.
Here unmolested, through whatever sign The sun proceeds, I wander. Neither mist, Nor freezing sky, nor sultry, checking me, Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy. Even in the spring and play-time of the year That calls the unwonted villager abroad With all her little ones, a sportive train, To gather king-cups in the yellow mead, And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick A cheap but wholesome sallad from the brook, These shades are all my own. The timorous hare, Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, Scarce shuns me; and the stock-dove unalarm'd
Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends His long love-ditty for my near approach. Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm That age or injury has hollow'd deep, Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves He has outslept the winter, ventures forth To frisk a while, and bask in the warm sun, The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play. He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud, With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm,
And anger insignificantly fierce.
The heart is hard in nature, and unfit
For human fellowship, as being void
Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike
To love and friendship both, that is not pleased With sight of animals enjoying life,
Nor feels their happiness augment his own.
The bounding fawn that darts across the glade When none pursues, through mere delight of heart, And spirits buoyant with excess of glee;
The horse, as wanton and almost as fleet,
That skims the spacious meadow at full speed, Then stops and snorts, and throwing high his heels. Starts to the voluntary race again;
The very kine that gambol at high noon,
The total herd receiving first from one That leads the dance, a summons to be gay, Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth Their efforts, yet resolved with one consent To give such act and utterance as they may
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