Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/68

 Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind, And full of every hope and every joy, The wish of nature. Gradual, sinks the breeze, Into a perfect calm; that not a breath Is heard to quiver thro' the closing woods, Or rustling turn the many-twinkling-leaves Of aspin tall. Th' uncurling floods, diffus'd In glassy breadth, seem thro' delusive lapse Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks Drop the dry sprig, and mute-imploring eye The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspense, The plumy people streak their wings with oil, To throw the lucid moisture trickling off; And wait th' approaching sign to strike at once, Into the general choir. Ev'n mountains, vales, And forests seem, impatient, to demand The promis'd sweetness. Man superior walks Amid the glad creation, musing praise, And looking lively gratitude. At last, The clouds consign their treasures to the fields; And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow, In large effusion, o'er the freshen'd world. The stealing show'r is scarce to patter heard, By such as wander thro' the forest-walks, Beneath th' umbrageous multitude of leaves. But who can hold the shade, while heaven descends In universal bounty, shedding herbs, And fruits and flow'rs, on Nature's ample lap? Swift fancy fir'd anticipates their growth; And, while the verdant nutriment distills, Beholds the kindling country colour round.