Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/95

 Delirious flung, sleep from his pillow flies. All night he tosses, nor the balmy power In any posture finds; till the grey morn Lifts her pale lustre on the paler wretch, Exanimate by love: and then perhaps Exhausted Nature sinks a while to rest, Still interrupted by distracted dreams, That o'er the sick imagination rise, And in black colours paint the mimic scene. Oft with th' enchantress of his soul he talks; Sometimes in crouds distress'd; or if retir'd To secret-winding flower-enwoven bowers, Far from the dull impertinence of Man, Just as he, credulous, his endless cares Begins to lose in blind oblivious love, Snatch'd from her yielded hand, he knows not how, Thro' forests huge, and long untravel'd heaths With desolation brown, he wanders waste, In night and tempest wrapt; or shrinks aghast, Back, from the bending precipice; or wades The turbid stream below, and strives to reach The farther shore; where succourless, and sad, She with extended arms his aid implores, But strives in vain; borne by th' outrageous flood To distance down, he rides the ridgy wave, Or whelm'd beneath the boiling eddy sinks.

are the charming agonies of love, Whose misery delights. But thro' the heart Should jealousy its venom once diffuse, 'Tis then delightful misery no more, But agony unmix'd, incessant gall, Corroding every thought, and blasting all Love's paradise. Ye fairy prospects, then, Ye beds of roses, and ye bowers of joy, Rh