Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/195

 Or, as the sharp year pinches, with their own Again regale them on some smiling day? See where the stony bottom of their town Looks desolate, and wild; with here and there A helpless number, who the ruin'd state Survive, lamenting weak, cast out to death. Thus a proud city, populous and rich, Full of the works of peace, and high in joy, At theater or feast, or sunk in sleep, (As late, Palermo, was thy Fate) is seiz'd By some dread earthquake, and convulsive hurl'd, Sheer from the black foundation, stench-involv'd, Into a gulph of blue sulphureous flame.

every harsher sight! for now the day, O'er heaven and earth diffus'd, grows warm, and high, Infinite splendor! wide investing all. How still the breeze! save what the filmy threads Of dew evaporate brushes from the plain. How clear the cloudless sky! how deeply ting'd With a peculiar blue! th' ethereal arch How swell'd immense! amid whose azure thron'd The radiant sun how gay! how calm below The gilded earth! the harvest-treasures all Now gather'd in, beyond the rage of storms, Sure to the swain; the circling fence shut up; And instant Winter's utmost rage defy'd. While, loose to festive joy, the country round Laughs with the loud sincerity of mirth, Shook to the wind their cares. The toil-strung youth By the quick sense of music taught alone, Leaps wildly graceful in the lively dance. Her every charm abroad, the village-toast, Young, buxom, warm, in native beauty rich, Darts