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Of growth luxuriant; or the humid bank,
In fair profufion, decks. Long let us walk,
Where the breeze blows from yon extended field
Of bloffom'd beans. Arabia cannot boast
A fuller gale of joy, than, liberal, thence
Breathes thro' the sense, and takes the ravish'd foul.
Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot,

Full of fresh verdure, and unnumber'd flowers,
The negligence of Nature, wide, and wild;
Where, undifguis'd by mimic Art, she spreads
Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.
Here their delicious task the fervent bees,
In fwarming millions, tend: around, athwart,
Thro' the foft air, the bufy nations fly,
Cling to the bud, and, with inferted tube,
Suck its pure effence, its ethereal foul;

And oft, with bolder wing, they foaring dare
The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows,
And yellow load them with the luscious spoil
At length the finifh'd garden to the view
Its vistas opens, and its alleys green.

Snatch'd thro' the verdant maze, the hurried eye
Distracted wanders; now the bowery walk

Of covert clofe, where scarce a fpeck of day
Falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted sweeps.

Now meets the bending sky; the river now
Dimpling along, the breezy ruffled lake,

The foreft darkening round, the glittering spire,
Th' ethereal mountain, and the diftant main.
But why fo far excurfive? when at hand,
Along these blushing borders, bright with dew,
And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers,
Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace;
Throws out the fnow-drop, and the crocus first ;
The daify, primrose, violet darkly blue,
And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes;

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The yellow wall-flower, ftain'd with iron brown ; And lavish stock, that scents the garden round; From the foft wing of vernal breezes fhed, Anemonies; auriculas, enrich'd

With fhining meal o'er all their velvet leaves;

And full ranunculas, of glowing red.

Then comes the tulip-race, where Beauty plays Her idle freaks; from family diffus'd

To family, as flies the father-duft,

The varied colours run; and, while the break
On the charm'd eye, th' exulting florist marks,
With fecret pride, the wonders of his hand.
No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud,
First-born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes:

Nor hyacinths, of pureft virgin white,
Low-bent, and blufhing inward; nor jonquils,
Of potent fragrance; nor Narciffus fair,

As o'er the fabled fountain hanging ftill;
Nor broad carnations, nor gay-fpotted pinks;
Nor, shower'd from every bush, the damask-rose.
Infinite numbers, delicacies, fmells,

With hues on hues expreffion cannot paint,
The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom.
Hail, SOURCE OF BEING! UNIVERSAL SOUL
Of heaven and earth! ESSENTIAL PRESENCE, hail!
TO THEE I bend the knee; to THEE my thoughts,
Continual, climb; who, with a master-hand,
Haft the great whole into perfection touch'd.
By THEE the various vegetative tribes,
Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves,
Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew
By THEE difpos'd into congenial foils,
Stands each attractive plant, and fucks, and fwells
The juicy tide; a twining mass of tubes.
At THY command the vernal fun awakes
The torpid fap, detruded to the root
By wint'ry winds; that now in fluent dance,
And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads
All this innumerous-coloured fcene of things.

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As rifing from the vegetable world

My theme afcends, with equal wing afcend,
My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the woods
Invite you forth in all your gayeft trim.
Lend me your fong, ye nightingales! Oh pour
The mazy-running foul of melody

Into my varied verfe! while I deduce,
From the first note the hollow cuckoo fings,
The fymphony of Spring, and touch a theme
Unknown to fame, the Paffion of the groves.

When first the foul of love is fent abroad,
Warm thro' the vital air, and on the heart
Harmonious feizes, the gay troops begin,
In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing;
And try again the long-forgotten strain,
At first faint-warbled. But no fooner grows
The foft infufion prevalent, and wide,
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows
In mufic unconfin'd. Up fprings the lark,
Shrill-voic'd, and loud, the meffenger of morn;
Ere yet the fhadows fly, he mounted fings
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts
Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copfe
Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush
Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads

Of the coy quiristers that lodge within,
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush

And wood-lark, o'er the kind-contending throng
Superior heard, run thro' the sweetest length
Of notes; when liftening Philomela deigns
To let them joy, and purposes, in thought
Elate, to make her night excel their day.
The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake;
The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove :
Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze
Pour'd out profufely, filent. Join'd to thefe
Innumerous fongsters, in the freshening shade
Of new-fprung leaves, their modulations mix
Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw,
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone,
Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove breathes
A melancholy murmur thro' the whole.

'Tis love creates their melody, and all

This waste of mufic is the voice of love;
That even to birds, and beasts, the tender arts
Of pleafing teaches. Hence the gloffy kind.
Try every winning way inventive love

Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates
Pour forth their little fouls. Firft, wide around,

With distant awe, in airy rings they rove,

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