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Crowding before me, edged around
With naked wilds, and barren ground.
See, below, the pleasant dome,
The poet's pride, the poet's home,
Which the sunbeams shine upon,
To the even, from the dawn.
See her woods, where Echo talks,
Her gardens trim, her terrace walks,
Her wildernesses, fragrant brakes,
Her gloomy bowers, and shining lakes,
Keep, ye gods, this humble seat,
Forever pleasant, private, neat.

See yonder hill, uprising steep,
Above the river slow and deep:
It looks from hence a pyramid,
Beneath a verdant forest hid;

On whose high top there rises great,
The mighty remnant of a seat,

An old green tower, whose battered brow
Frowns upon the vale below.

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A silver stream, a willow shade,
Beneath the shade a fisher stand,
Who, with the angle in his hand,
Swings the nibbling fry to land.

In blushes the descending Sun

Kisses the streams, while slow they run;
And yonder hill remoter grows,

Or dusky clouds do interpose.

The fields are left, the labouring hind
His weary oxen does unbind;

And vocal mountains, as they low,
Reëcho to the vales below;

The jocund shepherds piping come,
And drive the herd before them home;
And now begin to light their fires,

Which send up smoke in curling spires:
While with light heart all homeward tend,
To Abergasney I descend.

But, oh! how blessed would be the day,
Did I with Clio pace my way,

And not alone and solitary stray!

JAMES THOMSON

FROM THE SEASONS

SPRING

COME, gentle SPRING, - ethereal mildness, come;
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veiled in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.

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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 shattered forest, and the ravaged 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 unconfirmed,
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 ingulfed,
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.

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At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun,

And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more
The expansive atmosphere is cramped with cold;
But, full of life and vivifying soul,

3o Lifts the light clouds sublime and spreads them thin,
Fleecy, and white, o'er all-surrounding heaven.
Forth fly the tepid Airs; and unconfined,
Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays.
Joyous, the impatient husbandman perceives
35 Relenting nature, and his lusty steers

Drives from their stalls to where the well-used plough
Lies in the furrow, loosened from the frost.
There, unrefusing, to the harnessed yoke

They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil, 40 Cheered by the simple song and soaring lark. Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share The Master leans, removes the obstructing clay, Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe. White, through the neighbouring fields the sower stalks

45 With measured 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!
50 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 refined.

In ancient times the sacred plough employed
The kings and awful fathers of mankind;

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And some, with whom compared your insect-tribes
Are but the beings of a summer's day,

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Have held the scale of empire, ruled the storm
Of mighty war; then, with victorious hand,
Disdaining little delicacies, seized

The plough, and, greatly independent, scorned
All the vile stores corruption can bestow.

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 through 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 the exhaustless granary of a world!

Nor only through the lenient air this change,
Delicious, breathes: the penetrative sun,
His force deep-darting to the dark retreat

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