Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/117

 are the haunts of Meditation, these The scenes where ancients bards th' inspiring breath, Extatic, felt; and, from this world retir'd, Conversed with angels, and immortal forms, On gracious errands bent: to save the fall Of virtue, struggling on the brink of vice; In waking whispers, and repeated dreams, To hint pure thought, and warn the favour'd soul For future trials fated to prepare; To prompt the poet, who devoted gives His muse to better themes; to soothe the pangs Of dying worth, and from the patriot's breast, (Backward to mingle in detested war, But foremost when engag'd) to turn the death; And numberless such offices of love, Daily, and nightly, zealous to perform.

sudden from the bosom of the sky, A thousand shapes or glide athwart the dusk, Or stalk majestic on. Deep-rous'd, I feel A sacred terror, and severe delight, Creep through my mortal frame; and thus, methinks, A voice, than human more, th' abstracted ear Of fancy strikes. "Be not of us afraid, Poor kindred Man! thy fellow-creatures, we From the same our beings drew, The same our Lord, and laws, and great pursuit. Once some of us, like thee, thro' stormy life, Toil'd, tempest-beaten, ere we could attain This holy calm, this harmony of mind, Where purity and peace immingle charms. Then, fear not us; but with responsive song, Amid these dim recesses, undisturb'd By noisy folly and discordant vice, Of Nature sing with us, and Nature's .   Rh