Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/200

 O'er that the rising system, more complex, Of animals; and higher still, the mind, The varied scene of quick-compounded thought, And where the mixing passions endless shift; These ever open to my ravish'd eye: A search, the flight of time can ne'er exhaust! But if to that unequal; if the blood, In sluggish streams about my heart, forbid That best ambition; under closing shades, Inglorious, lay me by the lowly brook, And whisper to my dreams. From begin, Dwell all on, with conclude my song; And let me never never stray from ! WINTER.