And all this uniform uncolour'd scene Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load, And flush into variety again.
From dearth to plenty, and from death to life, Is Nature's progress, when she lectures man In heavenly truth; evincing, as she makes The grand transition, that there lives and works A soul in all things, and that soul is God. The beauties of the wilderness are his, That makes so gay the solitary place,
Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms, That cultivation glories in, are his.
He sets the bright procession on its way, And marshals all the order of the year;
He marks the bounds which winter may not pass, And blunts his pointed fury; in its case, Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ, Uninjured, with inimitable art;
And ere one flowery season fades and dies, Designs the blooming wonders of the next. Some say that in the origin of things, When all creation started into birth,
The infant elements received a law
From which they swerve not since that under force Of that controlling ordinance they move,
And need not His immediate hand, who first Prescribed their course, to regulate it now. Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God The encumbrance of his own concerns, and spare The great Artificer of all that moves The stress of a continual act, the pain Of unremitted vigilance and care, As too laborious and severe a task. So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems, To span Omnipotence, and measure might That knows no measure, by the scanty rule And standard of his own, that is to-day, And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down. But how should matter occupy a charge, Dull as it is, and satisfy a law
So vast in its demands, unless impell'd
To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force, And under pressure of some conscious cause? The Lord of all, himself through all diffused, Sustains, and is the life of all that lives. Nature is but a name for an effect,
Whose cause is God. He feeds the sacred fire By which the mighty process is maintain'd, Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sight Slow circling ages are as transient days; Whose work is without labour; whose designs No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts; And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. Him blind antiquity profaned, not served, With self-taught rites, and under various names, Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, And Flora, and Vertumnus; peopling earth With tutelary goddesses and gods,
That were not; and commending as they would To each some province, garden, field, or grove. But all are under one. One spirit- His
Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows, Rules universal Nature. Not a flower
But shews some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes In grains as countless as the seaside sands, The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. Happy who walks with him! whom what he finds Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower, Or what he views of beautiful or grand In Nature, from the broad majestic oak To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, Prompts with remembrance of a present God. His presence, who made all so fair, perceived, Makes all still fairer. As with him no scene Is dreary, so with him all seasons please. Though winter had been none, had man been true, And earth be punish'd for its tenant's sake, Yet not in vengeance; as this smiling sky, So soon succeeding such an angry night,
And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream Recovering fast its liquid music, prove.
Who, then, that has a mind well strung and tuned To contemplation, and within his reach A scene so friendly to his favourite task, Would waste attention at the chequer'd board, His host of wooden warriors to and fro Marching and countermarching, with an eye As fix'd as marble, with a forehead ridged And furrow'd into storms, and with a hand Trembling, as if eternity were hung In balance on his conduct of a pin ? Nor envies he aught more their idle sport, Who pant with application misapplied To trivial toys, and, pushing ivory balls Across a velvet level, feel a joy
Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds Its destined goal, of difficult access.
Nor deems he wiser him who gives his noon To Miss, the mercer's plague, from shop to shop Wandering, and littering with unfolded silks The polish'd counter, and approving none, Or promising with smiles to call again. Nor him who, by his vanity seduced, And soothed into a dream that he discerns The difference of a Guido from a daub, Frequents the crowded auction: station'd there As duly as the Langford of the show,
With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand, And tongue accomplish'd in the fulsome cant And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease; Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls, He notes it in his book, then raps his box, Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate, That he has let it pass but never bids.
Here unmolested, through whatever sign The sun proceeds, I wander. Neither mist, Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me, Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy.
* A famous auctioneer in articles of vertu.
Even in the spring and playtime of the year, That calls the unwonted villager abroad With all her little ones, a sportive train, To gather kingcups in the yellow mead, And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook, These shades are all my own. The timorous hare, Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, Scarce shuns me; and the stockdove, unalarm'd, Sits cooing in the pine tree, nor suspends His long love-ditty for my near approach. Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm, That age or injury has hollow'd deep, Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves, He has outslept the winter, ventures forth To frisk a while, and bask in the warm sun, The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play; He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,
Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush, And perks his ears, and stamps, and cries aloud, With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm,
And anger insignificantly fierce.
The heart is hard in nature, and unfit
For human fellowship, as being void Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike
To love and friendship both, that is not pleased With sight of animals enjoying life,
Nor feels their happiness augment his own.
The bounding fawn, that darts across the glade
When none pursues, through mere delight of heart,
And spirits buoyant with excess of glee;
The horse as wanton, and almost as fleet,
That skims the spacious meadow at full speed,
Then stops, and snorts, and, throwing high his heels, Starts to the voluntary race again;
The very kine, that gambol at high noon,
The total herd receiving first from one, That leads the dance, a summons to be gay, Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth Their efforts, yet resolved with one consent To give such act and utterance as they may
To ecstasy too big to be suppress'd- These, and a thousand images of bliss, With which kind Nature graces every scene, Where cruel man defeats not her design, Impart to the benevolent, who wish All that are capable of pleasure pleased, A far superior happiness to theirs, The comfort of a reasonable joy.
Man scarce had risen, obedient to His call Who form'd him from the dust, his future grave, When he was crown'd as never king was since. God set the diadem upon his head,
And angel choirs attended. Wondering stood The new-made monarch, while before him pass'd, All happy, and all perfect in their kind,
The creatures, summon'd from their various haunts, To see their sovereign, and confess his sway. Vast was his empire, absolute his power,
Or bounded only by a law, whose force 'Twas his sublimest privilege to feel
And own, the law of universal love.
He ruled with meekness, they obey'd with joy ; No cruel purpose lurk'd within his heart,
And no distrust of his intent in theirs.
So Eden was a scene of harmless sport,
Where kindness on his part, who ruled the whole, Begat a tranquil confidence in all,
And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear. But sin marr'd all; and the revolt of man,
That source of evils not exhausted yet, Was punish'd with revolt of his from him. Garden of God, how terrible the change
Thy groves and lawns then witnessed! Every heart, Each animal, of every name, conceived
A jealousy, and an instinctive fear, And, conscious of some danger, either fled Precipitate the loathed abode of man, Or growl'd defiance in such angry sort, As taught him too to tremble in his turn. Thus harmony and family accord
Were driven from Paradise; and in that hour
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