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WINDSOR FOREST.

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WINDSOR FOREST.

THE groves of Eden, vanish'd now so long,
Live in description, and look green in song;
These, were my breast inspired with equal flame,
Like them in beauty, should be like in fame.
Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,
Here earth and water seem to strive again;
Not chaos-like together crush'd and bruised,
But, as the world, harmoniously confused;
Where order in variety we see,

And where, though all things differ, all agree.
Here waving groves a chequer'd scene display,
And part admit, and part exclude the day;

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There, interspersed in lawns and opening glades,
Thin trees arise that shun each other's shades.
Here in full light the russet plains extend;
There, wrapt in clouds, the bluish hills ascend.
E'en the wild heath displays her purple dyes,
And 'midst the desert, fruitful fields arise,

That, crown'd with tufted trees and springing corn,
Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn.

Let India boast her plants, nor envy we

The weeping amber, or the balmy tree,

While by our oaks the precious loads are borne,
And realms commanded which those trees adorn.
Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,
Though gods assembled grace his towering height,
Than what more humble mountains offer here,
Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear.
See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crown'd,
Here blushing Flora paints th' enamelled ground,
Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand,
And, nodding, tempt the joyful reaper's hand;
Rich industry sits smiling on the plains,
And peace and plenty tell, a Stuart reigns.

JOHN DYER.

BORN, 1700; DIED, 1758.

THE PROSPECT.

Now I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene,
Does the face of nature show.
In all the hues of heaven's bow,
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly tow'ring in the skies;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires;
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.

Below me trees unnumber'd rise, Beautiful in various dyes; The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, The yellow beech, the sable yew, The slender fir, that taper grows, The sturdy oak, with broad-spread boughs; And beyond, the purple grove,

Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love,

Gaudy as th' op'ning dawn,

Lies along a level lawn ;

On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wand'ring eye;
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood;
His sides are cloth'd with flowing wood;

THE PROSPECT.

And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps:
So both a safety from the wind
On mutual dependence find!

"Tis now the raven's bleak abode;
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the pois'nous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there fall
Huge heaps of hoary, moulder'd wall.
Yet time has seen-that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow-
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state :
But transient is the smile of fate,
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers, how they run
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep-
Like human life to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought,
To instruct our wand'ring thought;
Thus she dresses green and gay,
To disperse our cares away.

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JAMES THOMSON.

BORN, 1700; DIED, 1748.

SCENE BETWEEN MAY AND JUNE.

IN lowly dale, fast by a river's side,

With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,

A most enchanting wizard did abide,

Than whom a fiend more fell is no-where found.

It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;

And there a season atween June and May,

Half prankt with spring, with summer half embrown'd, A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,

No living wight could work, ne cared ev'n for play.

Was nought around but images of rest;

Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between ;
And flowery beds, that slumbrous influence kest
From poppies breath'd; and beds of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd,
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen;
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny shade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.

Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills,

Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale :
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ;
Yet all these sounds y-blent inclined all to sleep.

Full in the passage of the vale, above,

A sable, silent, solemn forest stood,

Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move, As Idless fancy'd in her dreaming mood:

SCENE AT SEA.

And up the hills, on either side, a wood

Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horrour through the blood;
And where this valley winded out, below,

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The murmuring main was heard,and scarcely heard to flow.

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half shut eye,
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer sky;
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures, always hover'd nigh;
But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest,
Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest.

From "The Castle of Indolence."

WILLIAM FALCONER.

BORN, 1730; DIED, 1769.

SCENE AT SEA.

THE sun's bright orb, declining all serene,
Now glanced obliquely o'er the woodland scene.
Creation smiles around; on every spray
The warbling birds exalt their evening lay.
Blithe skipping o'er yon hill, the fleecy train
Join the deep chorus of the lowing plain;
The golden lime and orange there were seen,
On fragrant branches of perpetual green.
The crystal streams, that velvet meadows lave,
To the green ocean roll with chiding wave.
The glassy ocean hush'd forgets to roar,
But trembling murmurs on the sandy shore:
And lo! his surface, lovely to behold!
Glows in the west, a sea of living gold!
While, all above, a thousand liveries gay
The skies with pomp ineffable array.

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