Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/221

 Our hearts would burn within us, would inhale That portion of divinity, that ray Of purest heaven, which lights the public soul Of patriots, and of heroes. But if doom'd, In powerless humble fortune, to repress These ardent risings of the kindling soul; Then, even superior to ambition, we Would learn the private virtues; how to glide Thro' shades and plains, along the smoothest stream Of rural life: or snatch'd away by hope, Thro' the dim spaces of futurity, With earnest eye anticipate those scenes Of happiness, and wonder; where the mind, In endless growth and infinite ascent, Rises from state to state, and world to world. But when with these the serious thought is foil'd, We, shifting for relief, would play the shapes Of frolic Fancy; and incessant form Those rapid pictures, that assembled train Of fleet ideas, never join'd before, Whence lively Wit excites to gay surprize; Or folly-painting Humour, grave himself, Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve.

the village rouzes up the fire; While well attested, and as well believ'd, Heard solemn, goes the goblin-story round; Till superstitious horror creeps o'er all. Or, frequent in the sounding hall, they wake The rural gambol. Rustic mirth goes round: The simple joke that takes the shepherd's heart, Easily pleas'd; the long loud laugh, sincere; The kiss, snatch'd hasty from the sidelong maid, On purpose guardless, or pretending sleep: The leap, the slap, the haul; and, shook to notes Of