Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/191

 And every passion speaks: O thro' her strain Breathe thy pathetic eloquence! that moulds Th' attentive senate, charms, persuades, exalts, Of honest zeal th' indignant lightning throws, And shakes corruption on her venal throne. While thus we talk, and thro' Elysian Vales Delighted rove, perhaps a sigh escapes: What pity,, thou thy verdant files Of ordered trees shouldst here inglorious range, Instead of squadrons flaming o'er the field, And long-embattled hosts! when the proud foe The faithless vain disturber of mankind, Insulting Gaul, has rous'd the world to war; When keen, once more, within their bounds to press Those polish'd robbers, those ambitious slaves, The would hail thy wise command, Thy temper'd ardor and thy veteran skill.

western sun withdraws the shortened day; And humid evening, gliding o'er the sky, In her chill progress, to the ground condens'd The vapours throws. Where creeping waters ooze, Where marshes stagnate, and where rivers wind, Cluster the rolling fogs, and swim along The dusky-mantled lawn. Mean-while the moon Full-orb'd, and breaking thro' the scatter'd clouds, Shews her broad visage in the crimson'd east. Turn'd to the sun direct, her spotted disk, Where mountains rise, umbrageous dales descend, And caverns deep, as optic tube descries, A smaller earth, gives us his blaze again, Void of its flame, and sheds a softer day. Now thro' the passing cloud she seems to stoop, Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime. Wide