Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/77

 The sounding culver shoots; or where the hawk, High, in the beetling cliff, his airy builds. There let the classic page thy fancy lead Thro' rural scenes; such as the Mantuan swain Paints in the matchless harmony of song. Or catch thyself the landskip, gliding swift Athwart imagination's vivid eye: Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd, And lost in lonely musing, in the dream, Confus'd, of careless solitude, where mix Ten thousand wandering images of things, Soothe every gust of passion into peace; All but the swellings of the soften'd heart, That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind.

yon breathing prospect bids the Muse Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint Like Nature? Can imagination boast, Amid it's gay creation, hues like her's? Or can it mix them with that matchless skill, And lose them in each other, as appears In every bud that blows? If fancy then Unequal fails beneath the pleasing task, Ah what shall language do? Ah where find words Ting'd with so many colours; and whose power, To life approaching, may perfume my lays With that fine oil, those aromatic gales, That inexhaustive flow continual round?

, tho' successless, will the toil delight. Come then, ye virgins, and ye youths, whose hearts Have felt the raptures of refining love: And thou,, come, pride of my song! Form'd by the Graces, loveliness itself! Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet, Rh