Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/190

 Tremendous sweep, or seem to sweep along; And voices more than human, thro' the void Deep-sounding, seize th' enthusiastic ear!

is this gloom too much? Then lead, ye powers, That o'er the garden and the rural seat Preside, which shining thro' the chearful land In countless numbers blest sees; O lead me to the wide-extended walks, The fair majestic paradise of ! Not Persian Cyrus, on Ionia's shore, E'er saw such silvan scenes; such various art By genius fir'd, such ardent genius tam'd By cool judicious art; that in the strife, All-beauteous Nature fears to be outdone. And there, O, thy country's early boast, There let me sit beneath the sheltered slopes, Or in that Temple where, in future times, Thou well shalt merit a distinguish'd name; And, with thy converse blest, catch the last smiles Of Autumn beaming o'er the yellow woods. While there with thee th' inchanted round I walk. The regulated wild, gay Fancy then Will tread in thought the groves of Attic land; Will from thy standard taste refine her own, Correct her pencil to the purest truth Of Nature, or, the unimpassion'd shades Forsaking, raise it to the human mind. Or if hereafter she, with juster hand, Shall draw the tragic scene, instruct her thou, To mark the varied movements of the heart, What every decent character requires, And