Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/169

 Tho' pliant to the blast, its seizing force; Or whirl'd in air, or into vacant chaff Shook waste. And sometimes too a burst of rain, Swept from the black horizon, broad, descends In one continuous flood. Still over head The mingling tempest weaves its gloom, and still The deluge deepens; till the fields around Lie sunk, and flatted, in the sordid wave. Sudden, the ditches swell; the meadows swim. Red, from the hills, innumerable streams Tumultuous roar; and high above its banks The river lift; before whose rushing tide, Herds, flocks, and harvests, cottages, and swains, Roll mingled down; all that the winds had spar'd, In one wild moment ruin'd, the big hopes, And well-earn'd treasures of the painful year. Fled to some eminene, the husbandman, Helpless beholds the miserable wreck Driving along; his drowning ox at once Descending, with his labours scatter'd round, He sees; and instant o'er his shivering thought Comes winter unprovided, and a train Of clamant children dear. Ye masters, then, Be mindful of the rough laborious hand, That sinks you soft in elegance and ease; Be mindful of those limbs, in russet clad, Whose toil to yours is warmth, and graceful pride; And oh be mindful of that sparing board, Which covers yours with luxury profuse, Makes your glass sparkle, and your senfe rejoice! Nor cruelly demand what the deep rains, And all-involving winds have swept away.

the rude clamour of the sportsman's joy, The gun fast-thundering, and the winded horn, Would