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53

Mysterious round! what skill, what' Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings force divine,

fall.

Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train,
Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind
art,
Such beauty and beneficence combined;
Shade, unperceived, so softening into
shade;

And all so forming an harmonious whole;
That, as they still succeed, they ravish
still.

JAMES THOMSON.

But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze,

Man marks not thee, marks not the
mighty hand,

That, ever busy, wheels the silent
spheres ;
Works in the secret deep; shoots, steam-
ing, thence

The fair profusion that o'erspreads the
spring;

Flings from the sun direct the flaming day;

Feeds every creature; hurls the tempests forth;

And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,

With transport touches all the springs of life.

Nature, attend! join every living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join; and, ardent, raise One general song! To him, ye vocal gales,

Breathe soft, whose spirit in your fresh-
ness breathes:

0. talk of him in solitary glooms;
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely wav-
ing pine

Fills the brown shade with a religious

awe!

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar,
Who shake the astonished world, lift
high to heaven
The impetuous song, and say from whom
you rage.

His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trem-
bling rills;

And let me catch it as I muse along.
Ye headlong torrents, rapid and pro-
found;

Ye softer floods, that lead the humid

maze

Along the vale; and thou, majestic main,
A secret world of wonders in thyself,
Sound his stupendous praise, whose
greater voice

T

oft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers,

In

mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts,

Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.

Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him;

Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,

As home he goes beneath the joyous

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The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear,

At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass;

And, as each mingling flame increases each,

In one united ardor rise to heaven. Or if you rather choose the rural shade, And find a fane in every sacred grove, There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,

Still sing the God of seasons, as they roll.

For me, when I forget the darling theme,

Whether the blossom blows, the summer

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JOHN DYER.

[1700-1758.]

GRONGAR HILL.

SILENT nymph, with curious eye!
Who, the purple eve, dost lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man,
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings,
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale, -
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come and aid thy sister Muse.
Now, while Phoebus, riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky,
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Grongar, in whose mossy cells
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made,
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sat upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While strayed my eyes o'er wy's
flood,

Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his checkered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind,

And groves and grottos where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal.
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise.
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly risen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapors intervene;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show,
In all the hues of heaven's bow!
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,

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