Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/118

 Here frequent, at the visionary hour, When musing midnight reigns or silent noon, Angelic harps are in full concert heard, And voices chaunting from the wood-crown'd hill, The deepening dale, or inmost sylvan glade: A privilege bellow'd by us, alone, On contemplation, or the hallow'd ear Of Poet, swelling to seraphic strain."

art thou,, of that sacred band? Alas, for us too soon!—tho' rais'd above The reach of human pain, above the flight Of human joy; yet, with a mingled ray Of sadly-pleas'd remembrance, must thou feel A mother's love, a mother's tender woe: Who seeks thee still, in many a former scene; Seeks thy fair form, thy lovely-beaming eyes, Thy pleasing converse, by gay lively sense Inspir'd; where moral wisdom mildly shone, Without the toil of art; and virtue glow'd, In all her smiles, without forbidding pride. But, O thou best of parents! wipe thy tears; Or rather to pay The tears of grateful joy, who for a while Lent thee this younger-self, this opening bloom Of thy enlighten'd mind and gentle worth. Believe the Muse: the wintry blast of death Kills not the buds of virtue; no, they spread, Beneath the heavenly beam of brighter suns, Thro' endless ages, into higher powers.

up the mount, in airy vision rapt, I stray, regardless whither; till the sound Of