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HYMN OF THE SEASONS.
BY THOMPSON. THESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm, Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles ; And every sense and every heart is joy. Then comes thy glory in the summer-months, With light and heart refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering galeg. Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled. Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing Riding sublime, thou bidd'st the world adore, And humblest Nature with thy northern blast.
Mysterious round. what skill, what force divine, 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,
Nature, attend ! join every living soul
breathes, Oh, talk of him in solitary glooms, Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving 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 trembling rills ; And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound, Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale,--and thou, majestic main,
A socret world of wonders in thyself,
you roar, or bids your roarings fall.
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 moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies; effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day! best image here below Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, From world to world, the vital ocean round, On Nature write with every beam his praise. The thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world; While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound: the broad responsive low, Ye valleys, raise : for the Great Shepherd reigns, And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all awake: a boundless song Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds, sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades,and teach the night his praise. Ye, chief, for whom the whole creation smiles,
At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all,
Should fate command me to the farthest verge
Where Universal Love smiles not around,
ON SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE.
BY T. WARTON.
From beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls, Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing
walls, To my low cot, from ivory beds of state, Pleased I return, unenvious of the great. So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens, Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill, Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill; Now haunts old hollow'd oaks, deserted cells, Now seeks the low vale-lily's silver bells ; Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers, And tastes the myrtle and the citron flowers ; At length returning to the wonted comb, Prefers to all his little straw-built home.