Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/124

 While Philomel is ours; while in our shades, Thro' the soft silence of the listening night, The sober-suited songstress trills her lay.

come, my Muse, the desart-barrier burst, A wild expanse of lifeless sand and sky: And, swifter than the toiling caravan, Shoot o'er the vale of Sennar; ardent climb The Nubian mountains, and the secrets bounds Of jealous Abyssinia boldly pierce. Thou art no ruffian, who beneath the mask Of social commerce com'st to rob their wealth; No holy Fury thou, blaspheming , With consecrated steel to stab their peace, And thro' the land, yet red from civil wounds, To spread the purple tyranny of Rome. Thou, like the harmless bee, may'st freely range, From mead to mead bright with exalted flowers. From jasmine grove to grove, may'st wander gay, Thro' palmy shades and aromatic woods, That grace the plains, invest the peopled hills, And up the more than Alpine mountains wave. There on the breezy summit, spreading fair, For many a league; or on stupendous rocks, That, from the sun-redoubling valley lift, Cool to the middle air, their lawny tops; Where palaces, and fanes, and villas rise; And gardens smile around, and cultur'd fields; And fountains gush; and careless herds and flocks Securely stray; a world within itfelf, Disdaining all assault: there let me draw Etherial soul, there drink reviving gales, Profusely breathing from the spicy groves, And vales of fragrance; there at distance hear The roaring floods, and cataracts, that sweep From