Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/159



with the sickle, and the wheaten sheaf, While, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on,—the Doric reed once more, Well pleas'd, I tune. Whate'er the Wintry frost Nitrous prepar'd; the various-blossom'd spring Put in white promise forth; and summer-suns Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view, Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme.

! the Muse, ambitious of thy name, To grace, inspire, and dignify her song, Would from the Public Voice thy gentle ear A while engage. Thy noble cares she knows, The patriot virtues that distend thy thought, Spread on thy front, and in thy bosom glow; While listening senates hang upon thy tongue, Devolving thro' the maze of eloquence A roll of periods, sweeter than her song. But she too pants for public virtue, she, Tho' weak of power, yet strong in ardent will, Whene'er her country rushes on her heart, Assumes a bolder note, and fondly tries To mix the patriot's with the poet's flame.