Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/188

 To soothe the throbbing passions into peace; And woe lone Quiet in her silent walks.

solitary, and in pensive guise, Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead; And thro' the saddened grove, where scarce is heard One dying strain, to chear the woodman's toil. Haply some widowed songster pours his plaint, Far, in faint warblings, thro' the tawny copse. While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks, And each wild throat, whose artless strains so late Swell'd all the music of the swarming shades, Robb'd of their tuneful souls, now shivering sit On the dead tree, a full despondent flock; With not a brightness waving o'er their plumes, And nought save chattering discord in their note. O let not, aim'd from some inhuman eye, The gun the music of the coming year Destroy; and harmless, unsuspecting harm, Lay the weak tribes, a miserable prey, In mingled murder, fluttering on the ground!

pale descending year, yet pleasing still, A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf Incessant rustless from the mournful grove; Oft startling such as, studious, walk below, And slowly circles thro' the waving air. But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams; Till choak'd, and matted with the dreary shower, The forest-walks, at every rising gale, Roll wide the wither'd waste, and whittle bleak. Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields; And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race Their sunny robes resign, Even what remain'd Of