Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/238

178 Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to ; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day! best image here below Of thy creator, ever pouring wide, From world to world, the vital ocean round, On Nature write with every beam praise. The thunder rolls: be hush'd the prostrate world; While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound: the broad responsive lowe, Ye valleys, raise; for the reigns; And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song Burst from the groves; and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles; At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, Assembled men, to the deep organ join The long-resounding voice, oft-breaking clear, At solemn pauses, thro' the swelling base; And, as each mingling flame increases each, In one united ardor rise to heaven. Or if you rather chuse the rural shade, And find a fane in every sacred grove; There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, Still