Where Freedom's praise along the vale was heard, | Let Truth these fairer happier lands survey
And town to town return'd the fav'rite sound; Where patriot War her awful standard rear'd, And brav'd the millions Persia pour'd around?
There Freedom's praise no more the valley cheers,
There patriot War no more her banner waves;
Nor bard, nor sage, nor martial chief appears,
But stern barbarians rule a land of slaves.
Of mighty realms are such the poor remains?
Of in ghty realms that fell, when mad with pow'r,
They call'd for Vice to revel on their plains;
The monster doom'd their offspring to devour!
O Albion! wouldst thou shun their mournful fate, To shun their follies and their crimes be thine; And woo to linger in thy fair retreat,
The radiant virtues, progeny divine!
Fair Truth, with dauntless eye and aspect bland; Sweet Peace, whose brow no angry frown deforms; Soft Charity, with over-open hand;
And Courage, calm amid surrounding storms.
O lovely train! O haste to grace our isle!
So may the pow'r who ev'ry blessing yields,
Bid on her clime serenest seasons smile,
And crown with annual wealth her far-fam'd fields.
WRITTEN AT THE APPROACH OF WINTER.
THE Sun far southward bends his annual way,
The bleak north-east wind lays the forests bare,
The fruit ungather'd quits the naked spray,
And dreary Winter reigns o'er earth and air.
No mark of vegetable life is seen,
No bird to bird repeats his tuneful call; Save the dark leaves of some rude evergreen, Save the lone red-breast on the moss-grown wall.
Where are the sprightly prospects Spring supply'd, The may-flower'd hedges scenting ev'ry breeze; The white flocks scatt'ring o'er the mountain's side, The woodlarks warbling on the blooming trees?
Where is gay Summer's sportive insect train,
That in green fields on painted pinions play'd? The herd at morn wide-pasturing o'er the plain, Or throng'd at noon-tide in the willow shade?
Where is brown Autumn's ev'ning mild and still, What time the ripen'd corn fresh fragrance yields, What time the village peoples all the hill,
And loud shouts echo o'er the harvest fields?
To former scenes our fancy thus returns,
To former scenes, that little pleas'd when here!
Our winter chills us, and our summer burns,
Yet we dislike the changes of the year.
To happier lands then restless fancy flies, [flow;
Where Indian streams through green savannahs
Where brighter suns and ever tranquil skies
Bid new fruits ripen, and new flow'rets blow.
There frowning months descend in wat'ry storms; Or Nature faints amid the blaze of day,
And one brown hue the sun-burnt plain deforms.
Why else, when heard in Ev'ning's solemn gloom,
Does the sad knell, that sounding o'er the plain
Tolls some poor lifeless body to the tomb,
Thus thrill my breast with melancholy pain?
The voice of Reason thunders in my ear:
"Thus thou, ere long, must join thy kindred clay;
No more those nostrils breathe the vital air,
No more those eyelids open on the day !"—
O Winter, o'er me hold thy dreary reign!
Spread wide thy skies in darkest horrours dress'd!
Of their dread rage no longer I 'll complain,
Nor ask an Eden for a transient guest.
Enough has Heav'n indulg'd of joy below,
To tempt our tarriance in this lov'd retreat;
Enough has Heav'n ordain'd of useful woe,
To make us languish for a happier seat.
There is, who deems ali climes, all seasons fair;
There is, who knows no restless passion's strife;
Contentment, smiling at each idle care;
Contentment, thankful for the gift of life!
She finds in Winter many a view to please; [gay, The morning landscape fring'd with frost-work The Sun at noon seen through the leafless trees, The clear calm ether at the close of day:
She marks th' advantage storms and clouds bestow,
When blust'ring Caurus purifies the air;
When moist Aquarius pours the fleecy snow, [bear:
That makes th' impregnate glebe a richer harvest
She bids, for all, our grateful praise arise,
To him whose mandate spake the world to form; Gay Spring's gay bloom, and Summer's cheerful skies, [sounding storm. And Autumn's corn-clad field, and Winter's
WRITTEN AT AMwell, in hertfordshire, 1768.
O FRIEND! though silent thus thy tongue remains,
I read inquiry in thy anxious eye,
Why my pale cheek the frequent tear distains,
Why from my bosom bursts the frequent sigh.
Long from these scenes detain'd in distant fields,
My mournful tale perchance escap'd thy ear:
Fresh grief to me the repetition yields;
Thy kind attention gives thee right to hear!
Foe to the world's pursuit of wealth and fame, Thy Theron early from the world retir'd, Left to the busy throng each boasted aim,
Nor aught, save peace in solitude, desir'd.
A few choice volumes there could oft engage,
A few choice friends there oft amus'd the day;
There his lov'd parents' slow-declining age,
Life's calm unvary'd ev'ning, wore away.
Foe to the futile manners of the proud,
He chose an humble virgin for his own;
A form with Nature's fairest gifts endow'd,
And pure as vernal blossoms newly blown:
Her hand she gave, and with it gave a heart
By love engag'd, with gratitude impress'd,
Free without folly, prudent without art,
With wit accomplish'd, and with virtue bless'd.
Swift pass'd the hours; alas, to pass no more!
Flown like the light clouds of a summer's day! One beauteous pledge the beauteous consort bore; The fatal gift forbad the giver's stay.
Ere twice the Sun perform'd his annual round,
In one sad spot where kindred ashes lie,
O'er wife, and child, and parents, clos'd the ground;
The final home of man, ordain'd to die!
O cease at length, obstrusive Mem'ry! cease, Nor in my view the wretched hours retain, That saw disease on her dear life increase, And med'cine's lenient arts essay'd in vain.
the dread scene! (in misery how sublime!) Of love's vain pray'rs to stay her fleeting breath! Suspense that restless watch'd the flight of time, And helpless dumb despair awaiting death!
O the dread scene! "T is agony to tell,
How o'er the couch of pain declin'd my head,
And took from dying lips the long farewell,
The last, last parting, ere her spirit fled.
“ Restore her, Heav'n, as from the grave retrieve
In each calm moment all things else resign'd,
Her looks, her language, show how hard to leave
The lov'd companion she must leave behind.
"Restore her, Heaven! for once in mercy spare."
Thus love's vain prayer in anguish interpos'd;
And soon suspense gave place to dumb despair,
And o'er the past, Death's sable curtain clos'd
In silence clos'd-My thoughts rov'd frantic round,
No hope, no wish, beneath the Sun remain'd;
Earth, air, and skies, one dismal waste I found,
One pale, dread, dreary blank, with horrour
stain'd.
O lovely flow'r, too fair for this rude clime!
O lovely morn, too prodigal of light!
O transient beauties, blasted in their prime!
O transient glories, sunk in sudden night!
Sweet excellence, by all who knew thee mourn'd!
Where is that form, that mind, my soul admir'd;
That form, with ev'ry pleasing charm adorn'd;
That mind, with ev'ry gentle thought inspir'd?
The face with rapture view'd, I view no more;
The voice with rapture heard, no more I hear:
Yet the lov'd features Mem'ry's eyes explore;
Yet the lov'd accents fall on Mem'ry's ear.
Ah, sad, sad change! (sad source of daily pain!)
That sense of loss ineffable renews;
While my rack'd bosom heaves the sigh in vain,
While my pale cheek the tear in vain bedews.
Still o'er the grave that holds the dear remains, The mould'ring veil her spirit left below, Fond Fancy dwells, and pours funereal strains, The soul-dissolving melody of woe.
Nor mine alone to bear this painful doom,
Nor she alone the tear of song obtains;
The Muse of Blagdon ', o'er Constantia's tomb,
In all the eloquence of grief complains.
My friend's fair hope, like mine, so lately gain'd;
His heart, like mine, in its true partner bless'd;
Both from one cause the same distress sustain❜d,
The same sad hours beheld us both distress'd.
O human life! how mutable, how vain!
How thy wide sorrows circumscribe thy joy-
A sunny island in a stormy main,
A spot of azure in a cloudy sky!
All-gracious Heav'n! since man, infatuate man,
Rests in thy works, too negligent of thee,
Lays for himself on Earth his little plan,
Dreads not, or distant views mortality;
"T is but to wake to nobler thought the soul,
To rouse us ling'ring on Earth's flow'ry plain,
To virtue's path our wand'rings to control,
Affliction frowning comes, thy minister of pain!
THERE dwells a fond desire in human minds, When pleas'd, their pleasure to extend to those Of kindred taste; and thence th' enchanting arts Of picture and of song, the semblance fair
1 See Verses written at Sandgate Castle, in memory of a lady, by the late ingenious Dr. Langhorne.
Of Nature's forms produce. This fond desire
Prompts me to sing the lonely sylvan scenes
Of Amwell; which, so oft in early youth,
While novelty enhanc'd their native charms,
Gave rapture to my soul; and often, still,
On life's calm moments shed serener joy.
Descriptive Muse! whose hand along the stream Of ancient. Thames, through Richmond's shady groves,
And Sheen's fair vallies, once thy Thomson led ';
And once o'er green Carmarthen's woody dales,
And sunny landscapes of Campania's plain,
Thy other favour'd bard2; thou, who so late,
In bowers by Clent's wild peaks 3, to Shenstone's ear
Didst bring sweet strains of rural melody,
(Alas, no longer heard!)-vouchsafe thine aid:
From all our rich varieties of view,
What best may please, assist me to select,
With art dispose, with energy describe,
And its full image on the mind impress.
And ye, who e'er in these delightful fields
Consum'd with me the social hour, while I
Your walk conducted o'er their loveliest spots,
And on their fairest objects fix'd your sight;
Accept this verse, which may to memory call
That social hour, and sweetly vary'd walk!
And thou, by strong connubial union mine; Mine, by the stronger union of the heart; In whom the loss of parents and of friends, And her, the first fair partner of my joys, All recompens'd I find; whose presence cheers The soft domestic scene; Maria, come! The country calls us forth; blithe Summer's hand Sheds sweetest flowers, and Morning's brightest smile Illumines earth and air; Maria, come! By winding pathways through the waving corn, We reach the airy point that prospect yields, Not vast and awful, but confin'd and fair; Not the black mountain and the foamy main; Not the throng'd city and the busy port; But pleasant interchange of soft ascent, And level plain, and growth of shady woods, And twining course of rivers clear, and sight Of rural towns and rural cots, whose roofs Rise scattering round, and animate the whole.
Far tow'rds the west, close under sheltering hills, In verdant meads, by Lee's cerulean stream, Hertford's grey towers 4 ascend; the rude remains Of high antiquity, from waste escap'd Of envious time, and violence of war. For war there once, so tells th' historic page, Led Desolation's steps: the hardy Dane, By avarice lur'd, o'er ocean's stormy wave, To ravage Albion's plains, his fav'rite seat, There fix'd awhile; and there his castles rear'd
Thomson, author of the Seasons, resided part of his life near Richmond.
2 Dyer, author of Grongar Hill; The Ruins of Rome; and that excellent neglected poem, The Fleece.
3 The Clent-hills adjoin to Hagley-park, and are not far distant from the Leasowes.
4 In the beginning of the heptarchy, the town of Hertford was accounted one of the principal cities of the East Saxons, where the kings of that province often kept their courts, and a parliamentary council, or national synod, was held, Sept. 24, 673. Chauncy's Hertfordshire, p. 237.
Among the trees; and there, beneath yon ridge
Of piny rocks, his conq'ring navy moor'd,
With idle sails furl'd on the yard, and oars
Recumbent on the flood, and streamers gay
Triumphant flutt'ring on the passing winds.
In fear, the shepherd on the lonely heath
Tended his scanty flock; the ploughman turn'd
In fear his hasty furrow: oft the din
Of hostile arms alarm'd the ear, and flames
Of plunder'd towns through night's thick gloom from
Gleam'd dismal on the sight: till Alfred came,
Till Alfred, father of his people, came,
Lee's rapid tide into new channels turn'd,
And left aground the Danian fleet, and forc'd
The foe to speedy flight 5. Then Freedom's voice
Reviv'd the drooping swain; then Plenty's hand
Recloth'd the desert fields, and Peace and Love
Sat smiling by; as now they smiling sit,
Obvious to Faucy's eye, upon the side
Of yon bright sunny theatre of hills,
Where Bengeo's villas rise, and Ware-park's lawns
Spread their green surface, interspers'd with groves
Of broad umbrageous oak, and spiry pine,
Tall elm, and linden pale, and blossom'd thorn,
Breathing mild fragrance, like the spicy gales
Of Ind an islands. On the ample brow,
Where that white temple rears its pillar'd front
Half hid with glossy foliage, many a chief
Renown'd for martial deeds, and many a bard
Renown'd for song, have pass'd the rural hour.
The gentle Fanshaw 6 there, from "noise of camps,
From court's disease retir'd"," delighted view'd
The gaudy garden fam'd in Wotton's page;
Or in the verdant maze, or cool arcade,
Sat musing, and from smooth Italian strains
The soft Guarini's amorous lore transfus'd
Into rude British verse. The warrior's arm
Now rests from toil; the poet's tuneful tongue
5 Towards the latter end of the year 879, the Danes advanced to the borders of Mercia, and erected two forts at Hertford on the Lee, for the security of their ships, which they had brought up that river. Here they were attacked by the Londoners, who were repulsed. But Alfred advanced with his army, and viewing the nature of their situation, turned the course of the stream, so that their vessels were left on dry ground; a circumstance which terrified them to such a degree, that they abandoned their forts, and, flying towards the Severn, were pursued by Alfred as far as Quatbridge.— Smollet's Hist. of England, 8vo. edit. vol. i. p. 182.
6 Sir Richard Fanshaw, translator of Guarini's Pastor Fido, the Lusiad of Camoens, &c. He was son of sir Henry Fanshaw of Ware-park, and is said to have res ded much there. He was ambassador to Portugal, and afterwards to Spain, and died at Madrid in 1666. His body was brought to England, and interred in Ware church, where his monument is still existing. In Cibber's Lives of the Poets, it is erroneously asserted that he was buried in All-Saints church, Hertford.
7 The words marked with inverted commas are part of a stanza of Fanshaw's.
8 See Reliquiæ Wottonianæ, where the author makes a particular mention of the garden of sir Henry Fanshaw at Ware-park," as a delicate and diligent curiosity," remarkable for the nice arrangement of its flowers.
In silence lies; frail man his lov'd domains
Soon quits for ever! they themselves, by course
Of nature often, or caprice of art,
Experience change: even here, 't is said of old
Steep rocky cliffs rose where yon gentle slopes
Mix with the vale; and fluctuating waves
Spread wide, where that rich vale with golden flowers
Shines; and where yonder winding crystal rill
Slides through its smooth shorn margin, to the brink
Of Chadwell's azure pool. From Chadwell's pool
To London's plains, the Cambrian artist brought
His ample aqueduct9; suppos'd a work
Of matchless skill, by those who ne'er had heard
How, from Preneste's heights and Anio's banks,
By Tivoli, to Rome's imperial walls,
On marble arches came the limpid store,
And out of jasper rocks in bright cascades
With never-ceasing murmur gush'd; or how,
To Lusitanian Ulysippo's towers 10,
The silver current o'er Alcant'ra's vale
Roll'd high in air, as ancient poet's feign'd
Eridanus to roll through Heaven: to these
Not sordid lucre, but the honest wish
Of future fame, or care for public weal,
Existence gave; and unconfin'd, as dew
Falls from the hand of Evening on the fields,
They flow'd for all. Our mercenary stream,
No grandeur boasting, here obscurely glides
O'er grassy lawns or under willow shades.
As, through the human form, arterial tubes
Branch'd every way, minute and more minute,
The circulating sanguine fluid extend;
So, pipes innumerable to peopled streets
Transmit the purchas'd wave. Old Lee, meanwhile,
Beneath his mossy grot o'erhung with boughs
Of poplar quivering in the breeze, surveys
With eye indignant his diminish'd tide
That laves yon ancient priory's wall 12, and shows
In its clear mirror Ware's inverted roofs.
Ware once was known to Fame; to her fair fields
Whilom the Gothic tournament's proud pomp
Brought Albion's valiant youth and blooming maids:
Pleas'd with ideas of the past, the Muse
Bids Fancy's pencil paint the scene, where they
In gilded barges on the glassy stream
Circled the reedy isles, the sportive dance
Along the smooth lawn led, or in the groves
Wander'd conversing, or reclin'd at ease
To harmony of lutes, and voices sweet
Resign'd th' enchanted ear; till sudden heard
The silver trumpet's animating sound
Summon'd the champions forth; on stately steeds,
In splendid armour clad, the pond'rous lance
With strenuous hand sustaining, forth they came.
Where gay pavilions rose upon the plain,
Or azure awnings stretch'd from tree to tree,
The New River brought from Chadwell, a spring in the meadows between Hertford and Ware, by sir Hugh Middleton, a native of Wales.
10 The ancient name of Lisbon.
"A considerable part of the New River water is derived from the Lee, to the disadvantage of the navigation on that stream.
12" About the 18th of Henry III. Margaret, countess of Leicester, and lady of the manor, founded a priory for friars in the north part of this town of Ware, and dedicated the same to St. Franeis" Chauncy's Hertfordshire.
Mix'd with thick foliage, form'd a mimic sky
Of grateful shade (as oft in Agra's streets
The silken canopy from side to side
Extends to break the Sun's impetuous ray,
While monarchs pass beneath); there sat the fair,
A glittering train on costly carpets rang'd,
A group of beauties all in youthful prime,
Of various feature and of various grace!
The pensive languish, and the sprightly air,
The engaging smile, and all the nameless charms
Which transient hope, or fear, or grief, or joy,
Wak'd in th' expressive eye, th' enamour'd heart
Of each young hero rous'd to daring deeds.
Nor this aught strange, that those whom love in-
Prov'd ev'ry means the lovely sex to please: [spir'd
'T is strange, indeed, how custom thus could teach
The tender breast complacence in the sight
Of barb'rous sport, where friend from hand of friend
The fatal wound full oft receiv'd, and fell
A victim to false glory; as that day
Fell gallant Pembroke, while his pompous show
Ended in silent gloom 13. One pitying tear
To human frailty paid; my roving sight
Pursues its pleasing course o'er neighb'ring hills,
Where frequent hedge-rows intersect rich fields
Of many a different form and different hue,
Bright with ripe corn, or green with grass, or dark
With clover's purple bloom; o'er Widbury's mount
With that fair crescent crown'd of lofty elms,
Its own peculiar boast; and o'er the woods
That round immure the deep sequester'd dale
Of Langley 14, down whose flow'ry-embroider'd
meads
Swift Ash through pebbly shores meandering rolls,
Elysian scene! as from the living world
Secluded quite; for of that world, to him
Whose wand'rings trace thy winding length, appears
No mark, save one white solitary spire
At distance rising through the tufted trees-
Elysian scene! recluse as that, so fam'd
For solitude, by Warwick's ancient walls,
Where under umbrage of the mossy cliff
Victorious Guy, so legends say, reclin'd
His hoary head beside the silver stream,
In meditation rapt—Elysian scene!
At ev'ning often, while the setting Sun
On the green summit of thy eastern groves
Pour'd full his yellow radiance; while the voice
13" In the 25th of Henry III. on the 27th of June, Gilbert Marshall, earl of Pembroke, a potent peer of the realm, proclaimed here (at Ware) a disport of running on horseback with lances, which was then called a tournament." Chauncy's Hist. of Hertfordshire.
At this tournament, the said Gilbert was slain by a fall from his horse; Robert de Say, one of his knights, was killed, and several others wounded." Smollet's Hist. of England.
14 This delightful retreat, commonly called Langley-bottom, is situated about half a mile from Ware, and the same distance from Amwell. The scene is adapted to contemplation, and possesses such capabilities of improvement, that the genius of a Shenstone might easily convert it to a second Leasowes. The transition from this solitude to Widbury-Hill, is made in a walk of a few minutes, and the prospect from that hill, in a fine evening, is beautiful beyond description.
Of Zephyr whisp'ring midst the rustling leaves,
The sound of water murm'ring through the sedge,
The turtle's plaintive call, and music soft
Of distant bells, whose ever varying notes
In slow sad measure mov'd, combin'd to sooth
The soul to sweet solemnity of thought;
Beneath thy branchy bowers of thickest gloom,
Much on th' imperfect state of man I've mus'd:
How Pain o'er half his hours her iron reign
Ruthless extends; how Pleasure from the path
Of innocence allures his steps; how Hope
Directs his eye to distant joy, that flies
His fond pursuit; how Fear his shuddering heart
Alarms with fancy'd ill; how Doubt and Care
Perplex his thought; how soon the tender rose
Of beauty fades, the sturdy oak of strength
Declines to earth, and over all our pride
Stern Time triumphant stands. From gen'ral fate
To private woes then oft has memory pass'd,
And mourn'd the loss of many a friend belov'd ;
Of thee, De Horne, kind, gen'rous, wise, and good!
And thee, my Turner, who, in vacant youth,
Here oft in converse free, or studious search
Of classic lore, accompanied my walk!
From Ware's green bowers, to Devon's myrtle vales,
Remov'd a while, with prospect op'ning fair
Of useful life and honour in his view;
As falls the vernal bloom before the breath
Of blasting Eurus, immature he fell!
The tidings reach'd my ear, and in my breast,
Aching with recent wounds ", new anguish wak'd.
When melancholy thus has chang'd to grief,
That grief in soft forgetfulness to lose,
I've left the gloom for gayer scenes, and sought
Through winding paths of venerable shade,
The airy brow where that tall spreading beech
O'ertops surrounding groves, up rocky steeps,
Tree over tree dispos'd; or stretching far
Their shadowy coverts down th' indented side
Of fair corn-fields; or pierc'd with sunny glades,
That yield the casual glimpse of flowery meads
And shining silver rills; on these the eye
Then wont to expatiate pleas'd; or more remote
Survey'd yon vale of Lee, in verdant length
Of level lawn spread out to Kent's blue hills,
And the proud range of glitt'ring spires that rise
In misty air on Thames's crowded shores.
How beautiful, how various, is the view
Of these sweet pastoral landscapes! fair, perhaps,
As those renown'd of old, from Tabor's height,
Or Carmel seen; or those, the pride of Greece,
Tempè or Arcady; or those that grac'd
The banks of clear Elorus, or the skirts
Of thymy Hybla, where Sicilia's isle
Smiles on the azure main; there once was heard
The Muse's lofty lay.How beautiful,
How various is yon view! delicious hills [streams
Bounding smooth vales, smooth vales by winding
Divided, that here glide through grassy banks
In open sun, there wander under shade
Of aspen tall, or ancient elm, whose boughs
O'erhang grey castles, and romantic farms,
And humble cots of happy shepherd swains.
Delightful habitations! with the song
Of birds melodious charm'd, and bleat of flocks
From upland pastures heard, and low of kine
Grazing the rushy mead, and mingled sounds
Of falling waters and of whisp'ring winds-
15 See Elegy written at Amwell, 1768, p. 462. VOL. XVII.
Delightful habitations! o'er the land
Dispers'd around, from Waltham's osier'd isles
To where bleak Nasing's lonely tower o'erlooks
Her verdant fields; from Raydon's pleasant groves
And Hunsdon's bowers on Stort's irriguous marge,
By Rhye's old walls, to Hodsdon's airy street;
From Haly's woodland to the flow'ry meads
Of willow-shaded Stansted, and the slope
Of Amwell's mount, that crown'd with yellow corn
There from the green flat, softly swelling, shows
Like some bright vernal cloud by Zephyr's breath
Just rais'd above th' horizon's azure bound.
As one long travell'd on Italia's plains,
The land of pomp and beauty, still his feet
On his own Albion joys to fix again;
So my pleas'd eye, which o'er the prospect wide
Has wander'd round, and various objects mark'd,
On Amwell rests at last, its fav'rite scene!
How picturesque the view! where up the side
Of that steep bank, her roofs of russet thatch
Rise mix'd with trees, above whose swelling tops
Ascends the tall church tow'r, and loftier still
The hill's extended ridge. How picturesque !
Where slow beneath that bank the silver stream
Glides by the flowery isle, and willow groves
Wave on its northern verge, with trembling tufts
Of osier intermix'd. How picturesque
The slender group of airy elm, the clump
Of pollard oak, or ash, with ivy brown
Entwin'd; the walnut's gloomy breadth of boughs,
The orchard's ancient fence of rugged pales,
The haystack's dusky cone, the moss-grown shed,
The clay-built barn; the elder-shaded cot,
Whose white-wash'd gable prominent through green
Of waving branches shows, perchance inscrib'd
With some past owner's name, or rudely grac'd
With rustic dial, that scarcely serves to mark
Time's ceaseless flight; the wall with mantling vines
O'erspread, the porch with climbing woodbine
And under sheltering eves the sunny bench,
Where brown hives range, whose busy tenants fill,
With drowsy hum, the little garden gay, [flowers,
Whence blooming beans, and spicy herbs, and
Exhale around a rich perfume! Here rests
The empty wain; there idle lies the plough:
By Summer's hand unharness'd, here the steed,
Short ease enjoying, crops the daisy'd lawn;
Here bleats the nursling lamb, the heifer there
Waits at the yard-gate lowing. By the road,
Where the neat ale-house stands, (so once stood
Deserted Auburn! in immortal song
Consign'd to fame 16) the cottage sire recounts
The praise he earn'd, when cross the field he drew
The straightest furrow, or neatest built the rick,
Or led the reaper band in sultry noons
With unabating strength, or won the prize
At many a crowded wake. Beside her door,
The cottage matron whirls her circling wheel,
And jocund chants her lay. The cottage maid
Feeds from her loaded lap her mingled train
Of clamorous hungry fowls; or o'er the style
Leaning, with downcast look, the artless tale
Of ev'ning courtship hears. The sportive troop
Of cottage children on the grassy waste
Mix in rude gambols, or the bounding ball
Circle from hand to hand, or rustic notes
16 See The Deserted Village, a beautiful poem, by the late Dr. Goldsmith.
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