In large effusion, o'er the freshen'd world. The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard, By such as wander through the forest walks, Beneath th' umbrageous multitude of leaves.
But who can hold the shade, while Heaven descends In universal bounty, shedding herbs,
And fruits, and flowers, on Nature's ample lap! Swift fancy fired anticipates their growth; And while the milky nutriment distils, Beholds the kindling country colour round. Thus all day long the full-distended clouds Indulge their genial stores, and well-shower'd earth Is deep enrich'd with vegetable life;
Till, in the western sky, the downward sun Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam. The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes Th' illumined mountain, through the forest streams, Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist, Far smoking o'er the interminable plain, In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems.
Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs aroun Full swell the woods; their every music wakes, Mix'd in wild concert, with the warbling brooks Increased, the distant bleatings of the hills, And hollow lows responsive from the vales, Whence blending all the sweeten'd zephyr springs. Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud, Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow Shoots up immense; and every hue unfolds, In fair proportion, running from the red, To where the violet fades into the sky.
Here, awful Newton! the dissolving clouds Form, fronting on the sun, thy showery prism; And to the sage-instructed eye unfold The various twine of light, by thee disclosed From the white mingling maze. Not so the boy; He wondering views the bright enchantment bend,
Delightful, o'er the radiant fields, and runs To catch the falling glory; but amazed Beholds th' amusive arch before him fly, Then vanish quite away. Still night succeeds; A soften'd shade, and saturated earth Awaits the morning-beam, to give to light,
Raised through ten thousand different plastic tubes,
The balmy treasures of the former day.
Then spring the living herbs, profusely wild, O'er all the deep-green earth, beyond the power Of botanist to number up their tribes: Whether he steals along the lonely dale, In silent search; or through the forest, rank With what the dull incurious weeds account, Bursts his blind way; or climbs the mountain rock, Fired by the nodding verdure of its brow. With such a liberal hand has Nature flung Their seeds abroad, blown them about in winds, Innumerous mix'd them with the nursing mould, The moistening current, and prolific rain.
But who their virtues can declare? who pierce, With vision pure, into these sacred stores Of health, and life, and joy? the food of Man, While yet he lived in innocence, and told A length of golden years; unflesh'd in blood, A stranger to the savage arts of life, Death, rapine, carnage, surfeit, and disease; The lord, and not the tyrant, of the world.
The first fresh dawn then waked the gladden'd race
Of uncorrupted Man, nor blush'd to see The sluggard sleep beneath its sacred beam: For their light slumbers gently fumed away; And up they rose as vigorous as the sun, Or to the culture of the willing glebe, Or to the cheerful tendance of the flock. Meantime the song went round; and dance and sport, Wisdom and friendly talk, successive, stole Their hours away: while, in the rosy vale,
Love breathed his infant sighs, from anguish free, And full replete with bliss; save the sweet pain, That, inly thrilling, but exalts it more. Nor yet injurious act, nor surly deed,
Was known among those happy sons of Heaven; For reason and benevolence were law:
Harmonious Nature too look'd smiling on; Clear shone the skies, cool'd with eternal gales, And balmy spirit all: the youthful sun Shot his best rays, and still the gracious clouds Dropp'd fatness down; as o'er the swelling mead, The herds and flocks, commixing, play'd secure. This when, emergent from the gloomy wood, The glaring lion saw, his horrid heart Was meeken'd, and he join'd his sullen joy; For music held the whole in perfect peace: Soft sigh'd the flute; the tender voice was heard, Warbling the varied heart; the woodlands round Applied their quire; and winds and waters flow'd In consonance. Such were those prime of days.
But now those white unblemish'd manners, whence The fabling poets took their golden age, Are found no more amid these iron times, These dregs of life. Now the distemper'd mind Has lost that concord of harmonious powers, Which forms the soul of happiness, and all Is off the poise within: the passions all Have burst their bounds; and reason half extinct, Or impotent, or else approving, sees
The foul disorder. Senseless, and deform'd, Convulsive anger stormis at large; or, pale And silent, settles into fell revenge. Base envy withers at another's joy, And hates that excellence it cannot reach. Desponding fear, of feeble fancies full, Weak and unmanly, loosens every power. Even love itself is bitterness of soul, A pensive anguish pining at the heart;
Or, sunk to sordid interest, feels no more That noble wish, that never cloy'd desire, Which, selfish joy disdaining, seeks alone To bless the dearer object of its flame. Hope sickens with extravagance; and grief, Of life impatient, into madness swells, Or in dead silence wastes the weeping hours. These, and a thousand mix'd emotions more, From ever-changing views of good and ill, Form'd infinitely various, vex the mind
With endless storm: whence, deeply rankling, grows The partial thought, a listless unconcern,
Cold, and averting from our neighbour's good; Then dark disgust, and hatred, winding wiles, Coward deceit, and ruffian violence:
At last, extinct each social feeling, fell And joyless inhumanity pervades
And petrifies the heart. Nature disturb'd
Is deem'd, vindictive, to have changed her course. Hence, in old dusky time, a deluge came; When the deep-cleft disparting orb, that arch'd The central waters round, impetuous rush'd, With universal burst, into the gulf,
And o'er the high-piled hills of fractured earth Wide dash'd the waves, in undulation vast; Till, from the centre to the streaming clouds, A shoreless ocean tumbled round the globe.
The seasons since have, with severer sway, Oppress'd a broken world: the Winter keen Shook forth his waste of snows; and Summer shot His pestilential heats. Great Spring, before, Green'd all the year; and fruits and blossoms blush'd, In social sweetness, on the self-same bough:
Pure was the temperate air; an even calm Perpetual reign'd, save what the zephyrs bland Breathed o'er the blue expanse; for then nor storms Were taught to blow, nor hurricanes to rage; Sound slept the waters; no sulphureous glooms
Swell'd in the sky, and sent the lightning forth; While sickly damps, and cold autumnal fogs, Hung not, relaxing, on the springs of life. But now, of turbid elements the sport, From clear to cloudy tost, from hot to cold, And dry to moist, with inward-eating change, Our drooping days are dwindled down to nought, Their period finish'd ere 'tis well begun. And yet the wholesome herb neglected dies; Though with the pure exhilarating soul Of nutriment and health, and vital powers, Beyond the search of art, 'tis copious blest. For, with hot ravine fired, ensanguined Man Is now become the lion of the plain,
And worse. The wolf, who from the mighty fold
Fierce drags the bleating prey, ne'er drank her milk, Nor wore her warming fleece: nor has the steer, At whose strong chest the deadly tiger hangs,
E'er plough'd for him. They too are temper'd high, With hunger stung and wild necessity;
_Nor lodges pity in their shaggy breast. But Man, whom Nature form'd of milder clay, With every kind emotion in his heart,
And taught alone to weep: while from her lap pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs,
She And fruits, as numerous as the drops of rain,
Or beams that gave them birth: shall he, fair form! Who wears sweet smiles, and looks erect on Heaven, E'er stoop to mingle with the prowling herd, And dip his tongue in gore? The beast of prey, Blood-stain'd, deserves to bleed: but you, ye flocks, What have you done? ye peaceful people, what, To merit death? you, who have given us milk In luscious streams, and lent us your own coat Against the winter's cold? And the plain ox, That harmless, honest, guileless animal,
In what has he offended? he, whose toil, Patient and ever ready, clothes the land
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