Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/198

 An iron race! and those of fairer front, But equal inhumanity, in courts, Delusive pomp, and dark cabals, delight; Wreathe the deep bow, diffuse the lying smile, And tread the weary labyrinth of state. While he, from all the stormy passions free That restless Men involve, hears, and but hears, At distance safe, the human tempest roar, Wrapt close in conscious peace. The fall of kings, The rage of nations, and the crush of states, Move not the Man, who, from the world escap'd, In still retreats, and flowery solitudes, To Nature's voice attends, from month to month, And day to day, thro' the revolving year; Admiring, sees her in her every shape; Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart; Takes what she liberal gives, nor thinks of more. He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting gems, Marks the first bud, and sucks the healthful gale Into his freshen'd soul; her genial hours He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows, And not an opening blossom breathes in vain. In Summer he, beneath the living shade, Such as o'er frigid Tempe wont to wave, Or Hemus cool, reads what the Muse, of these Perhaps, has in immortal numbers sung; Or what she dictates writes; and, oft an eye Shot round, rejoices in the vigorous year. When Autumn's yellow lustre gilds the world, And tempts the sickled swain into the field, Seiz'd by the general joy, his heart distends With gentle throws; and, thro' the tepid gleams Deep-musing, then he best exerts his song. Even Winter wild to him is full of bliss. The