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JAMES THOMSON.

53

Mysterious round! what skill, what | Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings force divine,

fall.

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;

And all so forming an harmonious whole; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still.

But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze,

Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand,

That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ;

Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence

The fair profusion that o'erspreads the
spring;

Flings from the sun direct the flaming
day;
Feeds every creature; hurls the tempests
forth;

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Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers,

In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts,

Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil 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

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The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear,

At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass;

And, as each mingling flame increases each,

In one united ardor rise to heaven.
Or if you rather choose the rural shade,
And find a fane in every sacred grove,
There let the shepherd's flute, the vir-
gin's lay,

The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,

Still sing the God of seasons, as they roll.

For me, when I forget the darling theme,

Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray

Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams,

Or winter rises in the blackening east, Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no

more,

And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat!

Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song, where first

the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on the Atlantic isles, - 't is naught to me :

Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void waste, as in the city full;
And where he vital breathes, there must
be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall

-

come,

And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,

I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers,

Will rising wonders sing: I cannot go Where Universal Love not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their

suns;

From seeming evil still educing good, And better thence again, and better still,

In infinite progression. But I lose
Myself in him, in light ineffable!
Come then, expressive Silence, muse his
praise.

JOHN DYER.

[1700-1758.]

GRONGAR HILL.

SILENT nymph, with curious eye!
Who, the purple eve, dost lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man,
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings,
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale,-
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come and aid thy sister Muse.
Now, while Phoebus, riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky,
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Grongar, in whose mossy cells
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made,
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sat upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's
flood,

Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his checkered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind,

And groves and grottos where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal.
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise.
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly risen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapors 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,

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