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And send it in a torrent down the vale.
And sometimes too a burst of rain,
sees; and instant o'er his shivering thought Comes Winter unprovided, and a train
clamant children dear. Ye masters, then, mindful of the rough laborious hand That sinks you soft in elegance and ease; Be mindful of those limbs, in russet clad,
Whose toil to yours is warmth and graceful pride;
And, oh, be mindful of that sparing board
covers yours with luxury profuse,
Makes your glass sparkle, and your sense rejoice!
or cruelly demand what the deep rains And all-involving winds have swept away.
TO HER I LOVE.
Tell me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled;
Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam
And sometimes share thy lover's woe;
Oh! if thou hoverest round my walk,
And every tear is full of thee;
Should then the weary eye of grief,
Beside some sympathetic stream,
Oh! visit thou my soothing dream!
FROM 'THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE'
In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found.
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;
And there a season atween June and May,
Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned, A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,
No living wight could work, ne carèd even for play.
Was nought around but images of rest :
Joined to the prattle of the purling rills
Full in the passage of the vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood,
Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move,
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,
sleepy horror through the blood;
And where this valley winded out, below,
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.
A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer-sky :
eke the soft delights, that witchingly
a wanton sweetness through the breast;
And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh; But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest, Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest.
Straight of these endless numbers, swarming round,
Not one eftsoons in view was to be found,
As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles,
Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran
Yet the least entrance found they none at all: Whence sweeter grew our sleep secure in massy hall.
And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams,
Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array,
So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space; Ne could it e'er such melting forms display, As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay.
No, fair illusions! artful phantoms, no! My muse will not attempt your fairy land: She has no colours that like you can glow: To catch your vivid scenes too gross her hand. But sure it is, was ne'er a subtler band Than these same guileful angel-seeming sprights, Who thus in dreams voluptuous, soft, and bland, Poured all the Arabian heaven upon our nights, And blest them oft besides with more refined delights.
To number up the thousands dwelling here, An useless were, and eke an endless task; From kings, and those who at the helm appear, To gipsies brown in summer-glades who bask. Yea many a man, perdie, I could unmask, Whose desk and table make a solemn show, With tape-ty'd trash, and suits of fools that ask For place or pension laid in decent row; But these I passen by, with nameless numbers moe.
Of all the gentle tenants of the place,
was a man of special grave remark1;
A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face,
Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art. To noontide shades incontinent he ran, Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound, Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began, Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground, Where the wild thyme and camomile are found; There would he linger, till the latest ray Of light fate trembling on the welkin's bound, Then homeward thro' the twilight shadows stray, Sauntering and slow: so had he passed many a day.
' William Paterson, Thomson's amanuensis.