Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/151

 The next in nothing lost. 'Tis so to him, The dreamer of this earth, an idle blank: A sight of horror to the cruel wretch, Who all day long in sordid pleasure roll'd, Himself an useless load, has squander'd vile, Upon his scoundrel train, what might have chear'd A drooping family of modest worth. But to the generous still-improving mind, That gives the hopeless heart to sing for joy, Diffusing kind beneficence around, Boastless, as now descends the sielent dew; To him the long review of order'd life Is inward rapture, only to be felt.

from yonder slow-extinguish'd clouds, All ether softening, sober Evening takes Her wonted station in the middle air; A thousand shadows at her beck. First this She sends on earth; then that of deeper dye Steals soft behind; and then a deeper still, In circle following circle, gathers round, To close the face of things. A fresher gale Begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream, Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn; While the quail clamours for his running mate. Wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells the breeze, A whitening shower of vegetable down Amusive floats. The kind impartial care Of Nature nought disdains: thoughtful to feed Her lowest sons, and clothe the coming year, From field to field the feather'd feeds she wings.

folded flock secure, the shepherd home Hies, merry-hearted; and by turns relieves The