With foliage of fuch dark redundant growth,
I call'd the low-roof'd lodge the peasant's neft.
And hidden as it is, and far remote
From fuch unpleafing founds as haunt the ear
In village or in town, the bay of curs
Inceffant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,
And infants clam'rous whether pleas'd or pain'd,
Oft have I wish'd the peaceful covert mine.
Here, I have faid, at least I should poffefs
The poet's treafure, filence, and indulge
The dreams of fancy, tranquil and fecure.
Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat
Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.
Its elevated fcite forbids the wretch
To drink sweet waters of the crystal well;
He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,
And heavy-laden brings his bev'rage home,
Far-fetch'd and little worth; nor feldom waits,
Dependent on the baker's punctual call,
To hear his creaking panniers at the door,
Angry and fad, and his laft cruft confum'd.
So farewel envy of the peasant's nest.
If folitude make fcant the means of life,
Society for me! thou feeming fweet,
Be ftill a pleasing object in my view,
My vifit ftill, but never mine abode.
Not distant far, a length of colonade
Invites us. Monument of ancient taste,
Now fcorn'd, but worthy of a better fate.
Our fathers knew the value of a screen
From fultry funs, and in their fhaded walks
And long-protracted bow'rs, enjoy'd at noon
The gloom and coolnefs of declining day.
We bear our shades about us ; felf-depriv'd
Of other screen, the thin umbrella fpread,
And range an Indian wafte without a tree.
Thanks to Benevolus-he fpares me yet
⚫ John Courtney Throckmorton, Efq. of Wefton Underwood.
These chefnuts rang'd in corresponding lines, And though himself so polish'd, ftill reprieves The obfolete prolixity of fhade.
Defcending now (but cautious, left too fast)
A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge
We pass a gulph, in which the willows dip
Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.
Hence, ancle-deep in mofs and flow'ry thyme,
We mount again, and feel at ev'ry step
Our foot half funk in hillocks green and foft,
Rais'd by the mole, the miner of the foil.
He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,
Disfigures earth, and, plotting in the dark,
Toils much to earn a monumental pile,
That may record the mischiefs he has done.
The fummit gain'd, behold the proud alcove That crowns it! yet not all its pride fecures
The grand retreat from injuries impress'd
By rural carvers, who with knives deface
The pannels, leaving an obfcure, rude name,
In characters uncouth, and fpelt amifs.
So strong the zeal t' immortalize himself
Beats in the breaft of man, that ev'n a few
Few tranfient years won from th' abyfs abhorr'd
Of blank oblivion, feem a glorious prize,
And even to a clown. Now roves the eye,
And posted on this fpeculative height
Exults in its command. The sheep-fold here
Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe.
At first, progreffive as a ftream, they seek
The middle field; but fcatter'd by degrees,
Each to his choice, foon whiten all the land.
There, from the fun-burnt hay-field, homeward creeps
The loaded wain, while, lighten'd of its charge,
The wain that meets it paffes swiftly by,
The boorifh driver leaning o'er his team
Vocif'rous, and impatient of delay.
Nor less attractive is the woodland feene,
Diverfify'd with trees of ev'ry growth,
Alike, yet various. Here the grey smooth trunks
Of afh or lime, or beech, diftinctly shine,
Within the twilight of their distant shades;
There, loft behind a rifing ground, the wood
Seems funk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs.
No tree in all the grove but has its charms,
Though each its hue peculiar; paler fome,
And of a wannish grey; the willow fuch,
And poplar, that with filver lines his leaf,
And ash far-ftretching his umbrageous arm:
Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still,
Lord of the woods, the long-furviving oak..
Some gloffy-leav'd and shining in the fun,
The maple, and the beech of oily nuts
Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve
Diffufing odors: nor unnoted pass
The fycamore, capricious in attire,
Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet
Have chang'd the woods, in fcarlet honors bright.
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