Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,
And oft suspend the dashing oar
To bid his gentle spirit rest.
And oft as Ease and Health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening (1) spire, And 'mid the varied landscape weep.
But Thou, who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail ?
Or tears, which Love and Pity shed!
That mourn beneath the gliding sail?
Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmʼring near? With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die, And Joy desert the blooming year.
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd Sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side
'Whose cold turf hides the buried friend.
the fairy valleys fade,
Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view; Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's Child, again adieu.
The genial meads assign'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom; Their hinds, and shepherd-girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb.
Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay,
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes;
Oh! vales, and wild woods, shall He say,
In yonder grave Your Druid lies!
The subject proposed. Inscribed to the Countess of HERTFORD. The Season is described as it affects the various parts of Nature: ascending from the lower to the higher; with digressions arising from the subject. Its influence on inanimate Matter, on Vegetables, on brute Animals, and last on Man; concluding with a dissuasive from the wild and irregular passion of Love, opposed to that of a pure and happy kind.
COME, gentle SPRING, ethereal mildness, come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
O HERTFORD, fitted or to shine in courts
With unaffected grace, or walk the plain
With innocence and meditation join'd
In soft assemblage, listen to my song,
Which thy own Season paints; when Nature all
Is blooming and benevolent, like thee.
And see where surly WINTER passes off,
Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts:
His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,
The shatter'd forest, and the ravag’d vale;
While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch,
Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,
The mountains lift their green heads to the sky.
As yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd;
And WINTER oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless: so that scarce
The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulpht
To shake the sounding marsh; or from the shore
The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath,
And sing their wild notes to the listening waste.
At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun,
And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more
Th' expansive atmosphere is cramp'd with cold;
But, full of life and vivifying soul,
Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads them thin,
Fleecy and white, o'er all-surrounding heaven.
Forth fly the tepid airs; and unconfin'd,
Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays.
Joyous, th' impatient husbandman perceives
Relenting Nature, and his lusty steers
Drives from their stalls, to where the well-us'd
Lies in the furrow, loosened from the frost.
There, unrefusing, to the harness'd yoke
They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil,
Chear'd by the simple song and soaring lark.
Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share
The master leans, removes th' obstructing clay
Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe.
White, thro' the neighbouring fields the sower stalks
With measur'd step; and liberal throws the grain
Into the faithful bosom of the ground:
The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene.
Be gracious, HEAVEN! for now laborious Man
Has done his part. Ye fostering breezes, blow!
Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend!
And temper all, thou world-reviving sun,
Into the perfect year! Nor ye who live
In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride,
Think these lost themes unworthy of your ear:
Such themes as these the rural MARO sung
To wide-imperial Rome, in the full height
Of elegance and taste, by GREECE refin'd.
In ancient times, the sacred plough employ'd
The kings, and awful fathers of Mankind :
And some, with whom compar'd your insect-tribes
Are but the beings of a summer's day,
Have held the scale of empire, rul'd the storm
Of mighty war; then, with unwearied hand,
Disdaining little delicacies, seiz'd
The plough, and greatly independent liv'd.
Ye generous BRITONS, venerate the plough;
And o'er your hills, and long withdrawing vales,
Let Autumn spread his treasures to the sun,
Luxuriant and unbounded: as the sea,
Far thro' his azure turbulent domain,
Your empire owns, and from a thousand shores
Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports;
So with superior boon may your rich soil,
Exuberant, Nature's better blessings pour
O'er every land, the naked nations clothe,
And be th' exhaustless granary of a world!
Nor only thro' the lenient air this change,
Delicious, breathes; the penetrative sun,
His force deep-darting to the dark retreat
Of vegetation, sets the steaming Power
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