Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/66


 * the moist meadow to the withered hill,

Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs, And swells, and deepens, to the cherish'd eye. The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees, Till the whole leafy forest stands display'd, In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales: While the deer rustle thro' the twining brake, And the birds sing conceal'd. At once, array'd In all the colours of the flushing year, By nature's swift and secret-working hand, The garden glows, and fills the liberal air With lavish fragrance; while the promis'd fruit Lies yet a little embryo, unperceiv'd, Within its crimson folds. Now from the town Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisom damps, Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields, Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops From the bent bush, as thro' the verdant maze Of sweet-briar hedges I pursue my walk: Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend Some eminence,, in thy plains, And see the country far-diffus'd around, One boundless blush, one white-empurpled show'r Of mingled blossoms; where the raptured eye Hurries from joy to joy, and, hid beneath The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies.

brush'd from Russian wilds, a cutting gale Rise not, and scatter from his humid wings The clammy mildew; or dry-blowing, breathe Untimely frost; before whose baleful blast The full-blown Spring thro' all her foliage shrinks, Joyless and dead, a wide-dejected waste. For