Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/152

 The ruddy milk-maid of her brimming pail; The beauty whom perhaps his witless heart, Unknowing what the joy-mixt anguish means, Sincerely loves, by that best language shewn Of cordial glances, and obliging deeds. Onward they pass, o'er many a panting height, And valley sunk, and unfrequented; where At fall of eve the fairy people throng, In various game, and revelry to pass The summer-night, as village-stories tell. But far about they wander from the grave Of him, whom his ungentle fortune urg'd Against his own sad breast to lift the hand Of impious violence. The lonely tower Is also shun'd; whose mournful chambers hold, So night-struck Fancy dreams, the yelling ghost.

the crooked lanes, on every hedge, The glow-worm lights his gem; and, thro' the dark, A moving radiance twinkles. Evening yields The world to Night; not in her winter-robe Of massy Stygian woof, but loose array'd In mantle dun. A faint erroneous ray, Glanc'd from th' imperfect surfaces of things, Flings half an image on the straining eye; While wavering woods, and villages, and streams, And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain'd Th' ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene, Uncertain if beheld. Sudden to heaven Thence weary vision turns; where, leading soft The silent hours of love, with purest ray Sweet Venus shines; and from her genial rise, When day-light sickens till it springs afresh, Unrival'd reigns, the fairest damp of night, As