Page:The works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld volume 1.djvu/244

160 Sweet with the breath of kine and new-spread hay; And slumber on a bank, where the lulled youth, His head on flowers, delicious languor feels Creep in the blood. A different season now Invites a different song. The naked trees Admit the tempest ; rent is Nature's robe; Fast, fast, the blush of Summer fades away From her wan cheek, and scarce a flower remains To deck her bosom ; Winter follows close, Pressing impatient on, and with rude breath Fans her discoloured tresses. Yet not all Of grace and beauty from the falling year Is torn ungenial. Still the taper fir Lifts its green spire, and the dark holly edged With gold, and many a strong perennial plant, Yet cheer the waste : nor does yon knot of oaks Resign its honours to the infant blast. This is the time, and these the solemn walks, When inspiration rushes o'er the soul Sudden, as through the grove the rustling breeze.