Complete Works of James Thomson Read online

  Devoid of theirs. Even animals subsist

  On animals, in infinite descent;

  And all so fine adjusted, that the loss

  Of the least species would disturb the whole.

  Stranger than this th’ inspective glass confirms,

  And to the curious gives th’ amazing scenes

  Of lessening life; by Wisdom kindly hid

  From eye, and ear of man: for if at once

  The worlds in worlds enclos’d were push’d to light,

  Seen by his sharpen’d eye, and by his ear

  Intensely bended heard, from the choice cate,

  The freshest viands, and the brightest wines,

  He’d turn abhorrent, and in dead of night,

  When silence sleeps o’er all, be stun’d with noise.

  The North-east spends his rage, and now shut up

  Within his iron caves, th’ effusive South

  Warms the wide air, and o’er the void of heaven

  Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent.

  At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise,

  Scarce staining æther; but by fast degrees,

  In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails

  Along the loaded sky, and mingling thick

  Sits on th’ horizon round a settled gloom.

  Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed,

  Oppressing life, but lovely, gentle, kind,

  And full of every hope, and every joy,

  The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze

  Into a perfect calm; that not a breath

  Is heard to quiver thro’ the closing woods,

  Or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves

  Of aspin tall. The uncurling floods, diffus’d

  In glassy breadth, seem thro’ delusive lapse

  Forgetful of their course. ’Tis silence all,

  And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks

  Drop the dry sprig, and mute-imploring eye

  The falling verdure. Hush’d in short suspense,

  The plumy people streak their wings with oil,

  And wait th’ approaching sign to strike at once

  Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales,

  And forests seem, expansive, to demand

  The promis’d sweetness. Man superior walks

  Amid the glad creation, musing praise,

  And looking lively gratitude. At last

  The clouds consign their treasures to the fields,

  And, softly shaking on the dimply pool

  Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow,

  In large effusion o’er the freshen’d world.

  ’Tis scarce to patter heard, the stealing shower,

  By such as wander thro’ 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?

  Imagination fir’d prevents their growth,

  And while the verdant nutriment distills,

  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 illustrious from amid the flush

  Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam.

  The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes

  Th’ illumin’d mountain, thro’ the forest streams,

  Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist,

  Far smoaking o’er th’ interminable plain,

  In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems.

  Moist, bright, and green, the landskip laughs around.

  Full swell the woods; their every musick wakes,

  Mix’d in wild consort with the warbling brooks

  Increas’d, th’ unnumber’d bleatings of the hills,

  The hollow lows responsive from the vales,

  Whence blending all the sweeten’d zephyr springs.

  Mean time refracted from yon eastern cloud,

  Bestriding earth, the grand æthereal bow

  Shoots up immense! and every hue unfolds,

  In fair proportion, running from the red,

  To where the violet fades into the sky.

  Here, mighty Newton, the dissolving clouds

  Are, as they scatter’d round, thy numerous prism,

  Untwisting to the philosophic eye

  The various twine of light, by thee pursu’d

  Thro’ the white mingling maze. Not so the swain;

  He wondering views the bright enchantment bend,

  Delightful, o’er the radiant fields, and runs

  To catch the falling glory; but amaz’d

  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 again,

  Transmuted soon by Nature’s chymistry,

  The blooming blessings 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 thro’ the forest, rank

  With what the dull incurious weeds account,

  Bursts his blind way; or climbs the mountain rock,

  Fir’d 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 mold,

  The moistening current, and prolific rain.

  But who their virtues can declare? Who pierce

  With vision pure into these secret stores

  Of life, and health, and joy? The food of man

  While yet he liv’d 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 glad morning wak’d the gladden’d race

  Of uncorrupted men, nor blush’d to see

  The sluggard sleep beneath her sacred beam.

  For their light slumbers gently fum’d away,

  And up they rose as vigorous as the sun,

  Or to the culture of the willing glebe,

  Or to the chearful tendance of the flock.

  Mean time the song went round; and dance, and sport,

  Wisdom, and friendly talk successive stole

  Their Hours away. While in the rosy vale

  Love breath’d his infant sighs, from anguish free,

  Replete with bliss, and only wept for joy.

  Nor yet injurious act, nor surly deed

  Was known among these 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

  Drop’d fatness down; as o’er the swelling mead

  The herds and flocks commixing play’d secure.

  Which when, emergent from the gloomy wood,

  The glaring lyon saw, his horrid heart

  Was meeken’d, and he join’d his sullen joy.

  For musick held the whole in perfect peace:

  Soft sigh’d the flute; the tender voice was heard,

  Warbling the joyous heart; the woodlands round

  Apply’d their quire; and winds and waters flow’d

  In consonance. Such were thos
e prime of days.

  This to the Poets gave the golden age;

  When, as they sung in elevated phrase,

  The sailor-pine had not the nations yet

  In commerce mix’d; for every country teem’d

  With every thing. Spontaneous harvests wav’d,

  Still in a sea of yellow plenty round.

  The forest was the vineyard, where untaught

  To climb, unprun’d, and wild, the juicy grape

  Burst into floods of wine. The knotted oak

  Shook from his boughs the long transparent streams

  Of honey, creeping thro’ the matted grass.

  Th’ uncultivated thorn a ruddy shower

  Of fruitage shed, on such as fat below,

  In blooming ease, and from brown labour free,

  Save what the copious gathering, grateful, gave.

  The rivers foam’d with nectar; or diffuse,

  Silent, and soft, the milky maze devolv’d.

  Nor had the spongy, full-expanded fleece,

  Yet drunk the Tyrian die. The stately ram

  Shone thro’ the mead, in native purple clad,

  Or milder saffron; and the dancing lamb

  The vivid crimson to the sun disclos’d.

  Nothing had power to hurt; the savage soul,

  Yet untransfus’d into the tyger’s heart,

  Burn’d not his bowels, nor his gamesome paw

  Drove on the fleecy partners of his play:

  While from the flowery brake the serpent roll’d

  His fairer spires, and play’d his pointless tongue.

  But now whate’er these gaudy fables meant,

  And the white minutes which they shadow’d out,

  Are found no more amid those iron times,

  Those dregs of life! In which the human mind

  Has lost that harmony ineffable,

  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. Anger storms at large,

  Without an equal cause; and fell revenge

  Supports the falling rage. Close envy bites

  With venom’d tooth; while weak, unmanly fear,

  Full of frail fancies, loosens every power.

  Even love itself is bitterness of soul,

  A pleasing anguish pining at the heart.

  Hope sickens with extravagance; and grief,

  Of life impatient, into madness swells;

  Or in dead silence wastes the weeping hours.

  These, and a thousand mixt emotions more,

  From ever-changing views of good and ill,

  Form’d infinitely various, vex the mind

  With endless storm. Whence, inly-rankling, grows

  The selfish thought, a listless inconcern,

  Cold, and averting from our neighbour’s good;

  Then dark disgust, and malice, winding wiles,

  Sneaking deceit, and coward villany:

  At last deep-rooted hatred, lewd reproach,

  Convulsive wrath, and thoughtless fury, quick

  To deeds of vilest aim. Even Nature’s self

  Is deemed, vindictive, to have chang’d her course.

  Hence, in old time, a deluge came;

  When the disparting orb of earth, that arch’d

  Th’ imprison’d deep around, impetuous rush’d,

  With ruin inconceivable, at once

  Into the gulph, and o’er the highest hills

  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, as hoar Tradition tells,

  Have kept their constant chace; the Winter keen

  Pour’d out 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.

  Clear was the temperate air; an even calm

  Perpetual reign’d, save what the zephyrs bland

  Breath’d 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,

  Sat not pernicious on the springs of life.

  But now, from clear to cloudy, moist to dry,

  And hot to cold, in restless change revolv’d,

  Our drooping days are dwindled down to nought,

  Their fleeting shadow of a winter’s sun.

  And yet the wholesom herb neglected dies

  In lone obscurity, unpriz’d for food;

  Altho’ the pure, exhilerating soul

  Of nutriment and health, salubrious breathes,

  By Heaven infus’d, along its secret tubes.

  For, with hot ravine fir’d, ensanguin’d man

  Is now become the lyon of the plain,

  And worse. The wolf, who from the nightly fold

  Fierce-drags the bleating prey, ne’er drunk her milk,

  Nor wore her warming fleece: nor has the steer,

  At whose strong chest the deadly tyger hangs,

  E’er plow’d for him. They too are temper’d high,

  With hunger stung, and wild necessity,

  Nor lodges pity in their shaggy breasts.

  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

  She pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs,

  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 blood? The beast of prey,

  ’Tis true, deserves the fate in which he deals.

  Him, from the thicket, let the hardy youth

  Provoke, and foaming thro’ the awakened woods

  With every nerve pursue. But you, ye flocks,

  What have ye 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? Whose usefulness

  In living only lies? And the plain ox,

  That harmless, honest, guileless animal,

  In what has he offended? He, whose toil,

  Patient and ever-ready, cloaths the land

  With all the pomp of harvest; shall he bleed,

  And wrestling groan beneath the cruel hands

  Even of the clowns he feeds? And that perhaps

  To swell the riot of the gathering feast,

  Won by his labour? This the feeling heart

  Would tenderly suggest: but ’tis enough,

  In this late age, adventurous to have touch’d,

  Light on the numbers of the Samian sage.

  High Heaven beside forbids the daring strain,

  Whose wisest will has fix’d us in a state,

  That must not yet to pure perfection rise.

  But yonder breathing prospect bids the muse

  Throw all her beauty forth, that daubing all

  Will be to what I gaze; for who can paint

  Like Nature? Can Imagination boast,

  Amid his gay creation, hues like hers?

  Or can he mix them with that matchless skill,

  And lay them on so delicately fine,

  And lose them in each other, as appears

  In every bud that blows? If fancy then

  Unequal fails beneath the lovely task;

  Ah what shall language do? Ah where
finds words

  Ting’d with so many colours? And whose power,

  To life approaching, may perfume my lays

  With that fine oil, these aromatic gales,

  Which inexhaustive flow continual round?

  Yet, tho’ successless, will the toil delight.

  Come then, ye virgins, and ye youths, whose hearts

  Have felt the raptures of refining love;

  Oh come, and while the rosy-footed May

  Steals blushing on, together let us walk

  The morning dews, and gather in their prime

  Fresh-blooming flowers, to grace the braided hair,

  And the white bosom that improves their sweets.

  See, where the winding vale her lavish stores,

  Irriguous, spreads. See, how the lilly drinks

  The latent rill, scarce oozing thro’ the grass

  Of growth luxuriant; or the humid bank

  profusely climbs. Turgent, in every pore

  The gummy moisture shines; new lustre lends,

  And feeds the spirit that diffusive round

  Refreshes all the dale. Long let us walk,

  Where the breeze blows from yon extended field

  Of blossom’d beans: Arabia cannot boast

  A fuller gale of joy than, liberal, thence

  Breathes thro’ the sense, and takes the ravish’d soul.

  Nor is the meadow worthless of our foot,

  Full of fresh verdure, and unnumber’d flowers,

  The negligence of Nature, wide, and wild;

  Where, undisguis’d by mimic Art, she spreads

  Unbounded beauty to the boundless eye.

  ’Tis here that their delicious task the bees,

  In swarming millions, tend. Around, athwart,

  This way, and that, the busy nations fly,

  Cling to the bud, and, with inserted tube,

  Its soul, its sweetness, and its manna suck.

  The little chymist thus, all-moving Heaven

  Has taught: and oft, of bolder wing, he dares

  The purple heath, or where the wild-thyme grows,

  And yellow load them with the luscious spoil.

  At length the finish’d garden to the view

  Its vistas opens, and its alleys green.

  Snatched thro’ the verdant maze, the hurried eye

  Distracted wanders; now the bowery walk

  Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day

  Falls on the lengthen’d gloom, protracted darts;

  Now meets the bending sky, the river now

  Dimpling along, the breezy-ruffled lake,

  The forest running round, the rising spire,

  Th’ æthereal mountain, and the distant main.

  But why so far excursive? when at hand,