A Landscape
Now that summer's ripen'd bloom
Frolics where the winter frown'd,
Stretch'd upon these banks of broom,
We command the landscape round.
Nature in the prospect yields
Humble dales and mountains bold,
Meadows, woodlands, heaths-and fields
Yellow'd o'er with waving gold.
Goats upon that frowning steep
Fearless with their kidlings browse;
Here a flock of snowy sheep,
There an herd of motley cows.
On the uplands ev'ry glade
Brightens in the blaze of day;
O'er the vales the sober shade
Softens to an ev'ning gray.
Where the rill by slow degrees
Swells into a crystal pool,
Shaggy rocks and shelving trees
Shoot to keep the waters cool.
Shiver'd by a thunderstroke
From the mountain's misty ridge,
O'er the brook a ruin'd oak
Near the farmhouse forms a bridge.
On her breast the sunny beam
Glitters in meridian pride,
Yonder as the virgin stream
Hastens to the restless tide.
Where the ships by wanton gales
Waft'd o'er the green waves run,
Sweet to see their swelling sails
Whiten'd by the laughing sun.
High upon the daisy'd hill,
Rising from the slope of trees,
How the wings of yonder mill
Labour in the busy breeze!-
Cheerful as a summer's morn,
Bouncing from her loaded pad,
Where the maid presents her corn,
Smirking to the miller's lad.
O'er the green a festal throng
Gambols in fantastic trim
As the full cart moves along:
Hearken!-'tis the harvest hymn.
Linnets on the crowded sprays
Chorus-and the woodlarks rise,
Soaring with a song of praise
Till the sweet notes reach the skies.
Torrents in extended sheets
Down the cliffs dividing break;
'Twixt the hills the water meets,
Settling in a silver lake.
From his languid flocks the swain,
By the sunbeams sore opprest,
Plunging on the wat'ry plain,
Ploughs it with his glowing breast.
Where the mantling willows nod
From the green bank's slopy side,
Patient, with his well-thrown rod,
Many an angler breaks the tide.
On the isles, with osiers drest,
Many a fair-plum'd halcyon breeds;
Many a wild bird hides her nest,
Cover'd in yon crackling reeds.
Fork-tail'd prattlers, as they pass
To their nestlings in the rock,
Darting on the liquid glass,
Seem to kiss the mimic'd flock.
Where the stone cross lifts its head,
Many a saint and pilgrim hoar
Up the hill was wont to tread
Barefoot in the days of yore.
Guardian of a sacred well,
Arch'd beneath yon rev'rend shades,
Whilome in that shatter'd cell
Many a hermit told his beads.
Sultry mists surround the heath
Where the Gothic dome appears,
O'er the trembling groves beneath
Tott'ring with a load of years.
Turn to the contrasted scene,
Where, beyond these hoary piles,
Gay upon the rising green,
Many an Attic building smiles.
Painted gardens-grots-and groves,
Intermingling shade and light,
Lengthen'd vistas, green alcoves,
Join to give the eye delight.
Hamlets-villages, and spires,
Scatter'd on the landscape lie,
Till the distant view retires,
Closing in an azure sky.
A Pastoral In Three Parts
Day.
In the barn the tenant cock,
Close to Partlet perch'd on high,
Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock!)
Jocund that morning's nigh.
Swiftly, from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire;
And the peeping sun-beam, now
Paints with gold the village spire.
Philomel forsakes the thorn,
Plaintive where she prates at night:
And the lark to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight.
From the low-roof'd cottage ridge,
See the chatt'ring swallow spring;
Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick she drips her dappled wing.
Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently greets the morning gale;
Kidlings, now, begin to crop
Daisies, on the dewy dale.
From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd,
(Restless till her task be done),
Now the busy bee's employ'd,
Sipping dew before the sun.
Trickling through the crevic'd rock,
Where the limpid stream distils,
Sweet refreshment waits the flock,
When 'tis sun-drove from the hills.
Colin's for the promis'd corn
(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe)
Anxious; - whilst the huntsman's horn,
Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe.
Sweet - O sweet, the warbling throng,
On the white emblossom'd spray!
Nature's universal song
Echoes to the rising day.
Noon.
Fervid on the glitt'ring flood,
Now the noontide radiance glows:
Drooping o'er its infant bud,
Not a dew-drop's left the rose.
By the brook the shepherd dines,
From the fierce meridian heat,
Shelter'd by the branching pines,
Pendant o'er his grassy seat.
Now the flock forsakes the glade,
Where uncheck'd the sun-beams fall,
Sure to find a pleasing shade
By the ivy'd abbey wall.
Echo, in her airy round,
O'er the river, rock, and hill,
Cannot catch a single sound,
Save the clack of yonder mill.
Cattle court the zephyrs bland,
Where the streamlet wanders cool;
Or with languid silence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.
But from mountain, dell, or stream,
Not a flutt'ring zephyr springs;
Fearful lest the noontide beam
Scorch its soft, its silken wings.
Not a leaf has leave to stir,
Nature's lull'd - serene - and still
Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.
Languid is the landscape round,
Till the fresh descending show'r,
Grateful to the thirsty ground,
Raises ev'ry fainting flow'r.
Now the hill - the hedge - are green,
Now the warblers' throats in tune;
Blithsome is the verdant scene,
Brighten'd by the beams of Noon!
Evening.
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.
Now he sets behind the hill,
Sinking from a golden sky:
Can the pencil's mimic skill
Copy the refulgent dye?
Trudging as the ploughmen go,
(To the smoaking hamlet bound,)
Giant-like their shadows grow
Lengthen'd o'er the level ground.
Where the rising forest spreads
Shelter for the lordly dome!
To their high-built airy beds,
See the rooks returning home?
As the lark, with vary'd tune,
Carols to the ev'ning loud;
Mark the mild resplendent moon,
Breaking through a parted cloud!
Now the hermit owlet peeps
From the barn or twisted brake;
And the blue mist slowly creeps,
Curling on the silver lake.
As the trout in speckled pride,
Playful from its bosom springs;
To the banks a ruffled tide
Verges in successive rings.
Tripping through the silken grass
O'er the path-divided dale,
Mark the rose-complexion'd lass
With her well-pois'd milking pail!
Linnets with unnumber'd notes,
And the cuckoo bird with two,
Tuning sweet their mellow throats,
Bid the setting sun adieu.
