Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/73

 Shook forth his waste of snows; and Summer shot His pestilential heats. Great Spring, before, Green'd all the year: and fruits and blossoms blush'd, In social sweetness, on the self-same bough. Pure was the temperate air; an even calm Perpetual reign'd, save what the zephyrs bland Breath'd o'er the blue expanse; for then nor storms Were taught to blow, nor hurricanes to rage; Sound slept the waters; no sulphureous glooms Swell'd in the sky, and sent the lightening forth; While sickly damps, and cold autumnal fogs, Hung not, relaxing, on the springs of life. But now, of turbid elements the sport, From clear to cloudy tost, from hot to cold, And dry to moist, with inward-eating change, Our drooping days are dwindled down to nought, Their period finish'd ere 'tis well begun.

yet the wholesome herb neglected dies; Though with the pure exhilarating soul Of nutriment and health, and vital powers, Beyond the search of art; 'tis copious blest. For, with hot ravine fir'd, insanguin'd Man Is now become the lion of the plain, And worse. The wolf, who from the nightly fold Fierce drags the bleating prey, ne'er drunk her milk, Nor wore her warming fleece: nor has the steer, At whose strong chest the deadly tyger hangs, E'er plow'd for him. They too are temper'd high, With hunger stung and wild necessity, Nor lodges pity in their shaggy breast. But Man, whom nature form'd of milder clay, With every kind emotion in his heart, And taught alone to weep; while from her lap And