Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/106

 When first she gives it to the southern gale, Than the green Emerald shows. But, all combin'd, Thick thro' the whitening Opal play thy beams; Or, flying several from its surface, form A trembling variance of revolving hues, As the site varies in the gazer's hand.

very dead creation, from thy touch, Assumes a mimic life. By thee refin'd, In brighter mazes the relucent stream Plays o'er the mead. The precipice abrupt, Projecting horror on the blackened flood, Softens at thy return. The desart joys Wildly, thro' all his melancholy bounds. Rude ruins glitter; and the briny deep, Seen from some pointed promontory's top, Far to the blue horizon's utmost verge, Restless, reflects a floating gleam. But this, And all the much-transported Muse can sing. Are to thy beauty, dignity, and use, Unequal far, great delegated source Of light, and life, and grace, and joy below!

shall I then attempt to sing of , Who,, in uncreated light Invested deep, dwells awfully retir'd From mortal eye, or angel's purer ken; Whose single smile has, from the first of time, Fill'd, overflowing, all those lamps of Heaven, That beam for ever thro' the boundless sky: But, should he hide his face, th' astonish'd sun, And all th' extinguish'd stars, would loosening start Wide from their spheres, and Chaos come again.

yet was every faultering tongue of Man, ! silent in thy praise; Thy