Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast)
A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.
Hence ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme We mount again, and feel at every step Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil.
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 summit gained, behold the proud alcove That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures The grand retreat from injuries impressed By rural carvers, who with knives deface The panels, leaving an obscure rude name In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.
So strong the zeal to immortalise himself Beats in the breast of man, that even a few Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorred Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, And even to a clown. Now roves the eye, And posted on this speculative height Exults in its command. The sheepfold here Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe.
At first, progressive as a stream, they seek The middle field; but scattered by degrees, Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land.
There, from the sunburnt hay-field homeward creeps The loaded wain; while, lightened of its charge, The wain that meets it passes swiftly by, The boorish driver leaning o'er his team, Vociferous, and impatient of delay.
Nor less attractive is the woodland scene Diversified with trees of every growth, Alike yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine, Within the twilight of their distant shades;There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood Seems sunk, and shortened to its topmost boughs.
No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, And of a wannish gray; the willow such, And poplar that with silver lines his leaf, And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm;Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still, Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak.
Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun, The maple, and the beech of oily nuts Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve Diffusing odours; nor unnoted pass The sycamore, capricious in attire, Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright.
O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map Of hill and valley interposed between), The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land, Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.
Hence the declivity is sharp and short, And such the re-ascent; between them weeps A little Naiad her impoverished urn, All summer long, which winter fills again.
The folded gates would bar my progress now, But that the lord of this enclosed demesne, Communicative of the good he owns, Admits me to a share: the guiltless eye Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys.
Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun?
By short transition we have lost his glare, And stepped at once into a cooler clime.
Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice That yet a remnant of your race survives.
How airy and how light the graceful arch, Yet awful as the consecrated roof Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath, The chequered earth seems restless as a flood Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the light Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves Play wanton, every moment, every spot.
And now, with nerves new-braced and spirits cheered, We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks, With curvature of slow and easy sweep--Deception innocent--give ample space To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms We may discern the thresher at his task.
Thump after thump resounds the constant flail, That seems to swing uncertain and yet falls Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff, The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam.
Come hither, ye that press your beds of down And sleep not: see him sweating o'er his bread Before he eats it.--'Tis the primal curse, But softened into mercy; made the pledge Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan.
By ceaseless action, all that is subsists.
Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel That Nature rides upon, maintains her health, Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves.
Its own revolvency upholds the world.
Winds from all quarters agitate the air, And fit the limpid element for use, Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed By restless undulation: even the oak Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm:
He seems indeed indignant, and to feel The impression of the blast with proud disdain, Frowning as if in his unconscious arm He held the thunder. But the monarch owes His firm stability to what he scorns, More fixed below, the more disturbed above.
The law, by which all creatures else are bound, Binds man the lord of all. Himself derives No mean advantage from a kindred cause, From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease.
The sedentary stretch their lazy length When custom bids, but no refreshment find, For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, And withered muscle, and the vapid soul, Reproach their owner with that love of rest To which he forfeits even the rest he loves.
Not such the alert and active. Measure life By its true worth, the comforts it affords, And theirs alone seems worthy of the name Good health, and, its associate in the most, Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake, And not soon spent, though in an arduous task;The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs;Even age itself seems privileged in them With clear exemption from its own defects.
