Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/134

 And hush'd the clamour of the busy world. Empty the streets, with uncouth verdure clad; Into the worst of desarts sudden turn'd The chearful haunt of Men: unless escap'd From the doom'd house, where matchless horror reigns, Shut up by barbarous fear, the smitten wretch, With frenzy wild, breaks loose; and, loud to heaven Screaming, the dreadful policy arraigns, Inhuman, and unwise. The sullen door, Yet uninfected, on its cautious hinge Fearing to turn, abhors society: Dependants, friends, relations, Love himself, Savag'd by woe, forget the tender tie, The sweet engagement of the feeling heart. But vain their selfish care: the circling sky, The wide enlivening air is full of fate; And, struck by turns, in solitary pangs They fall, unblest, untended, and unmourn'd Thus o'er the prostrate city black Despair Extends her raven wing; while, to compleat The scene of desolation, stretch'd around, The grim guards stand, denying all retreat, And give the flying wretch a better death.

yet remains unsung: the rage intense Of brazen-vaulted skies, of iron fields, Where drought and famine starve the blasted year: Fir'd by the torch of noon to tenfold rage, Th' infuriate hill that shoots the pillar'd flame; And, rous'd within the subterranean world, Th' expanding earthquake, that resistless shakes Aspiring cities from their solid base, And buries mountains in the flaming gulph. But 'tis enough; return, my vagrant Muse: A nearer scene of horror calls thee home. ,