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His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil

Incurring short fatigue; and, though our years

As life declines speed rapidly away,

And not a year but pilfers as he goes

Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep;

A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees

Their length and colour from the locks they spare;
Th' elastic spring of an unwearied foot

That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence,
That play of lungs, inhaling and again

Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes
Swift pace or steep afcent no toil to me,
Mine have not pilfer'd yet; nor yet impair'd
My relish of fair profpect; scenes that footh'd
Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find
Still foothing, and of pow'r to charm me still.
And witness, dear companion of my walks,
Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive
Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure fuch as love,
Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth

And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire

Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.

Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere,
And that my raptures are not conjur'd up
To ferve occafions of poetic pomp,
But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our pace
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have born
The ruffling wind, fcarce confcious that it blew,
While admiration, feeding at the eye,
And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.
Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd
The diftant plough flow moving, and befide
His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track,
The sturdy fwain diminish'd to a boy!
Here Ouse, flow winding through a level plain
Of fpacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along his finuous course
Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank,
Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms,

i

That screen the herdsman's folitary hut;
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,
The floping land recedes into the clouds;
Displaying on its varied side the grace

Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r,
Tall spire, from which the found of cheerful bells
Just undulates upon the lift'ning ear,
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote.
Scenes must be beautiful which, daily view'd,
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years,
Praise justly due to those that I describe.

Nor rural fights alone, but rural founds,
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,
That sweep the skirt of fome far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding shore,

And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;

Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves fast flutt'ring, all at once.
Nor less composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills that lip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grafs, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their filent course.
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
But animated nature sweeter still,

To footh and fatisfy the human ear.

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
The live-long night: nor these alone, whose notes

Nice finger'd art must emulate in vain,

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim fublime
In still repeated circles, screaming loud,
The jay, the pie, and ev'n the boding owl

That hails the rifing moon, have charms for me.

Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, And only there, please highly for their fake.

Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought Devis'd the weather-house, that useful toy! Fearless of humid air and gathering rains, Forth steps the man-an emblem of myself! More delicate, his tim'rous mate retires. When Winter foaks the fields, and female feet, Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, The task of new discov'ries falls on me. At fuch a season, and with such a charge, Once went I forth; and found, till then unknown, A cottage, whither oft we fince repair: 'Tis perch'd upon the green-hill top, but close Environ'd with a ring of branching elms That overhang the thatch, itself unseen Peeps at the vale below; so thick befet

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