Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/91

 Or gleam in lengthen'd vista thro' the trees, You silent steal; or sit beneath the shade Of solemn oaks, that tuft the swelling mounts Thrown graceful round by Nature's careless hand, And pensive listen to the various voice Of rural peace: the herds, the flocks, the birds, The hollow-whispering breeze, the plaint of rills, That, purling down amid the twisted roots Which creep around, their dewy murmurs shake On the sooth'd ear. From these abstracted oft, You wander through the philosophic world; Where in bright train continual wonders rise, Or to the curious or the pious eye. And oft, conducted by historic truth, You tread the long extent of backward time: Planning, with warm benevolence of mind, And honest zeal unwarp'd by party-rage, weal; how from the venal gulph To raise her virtue, and her arts revive. Or, turning thence thy view, these graver thoughts The Muses charm: while, with sure taste refin'd, You draw th' inspiring breath of ancient song; Till nobly rises, emulous, thy own. Perhaps thy lov'd shares thy walk, With soul to thine attun'd. Then Nature all Wears to the lover's eye a look of love; And all the tumult of a guilty world, Tost by ungenerous passions, sinks away. The tender heart is animated peace; And as it pours its copious treasures forth, In varied converse, softening every theme, You, frequent-pausing, turn, and from her eyes, Where meekened sense, and amiable grace, And lively sweetness dwell, enraptur'd, drink That