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JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748)

THE SEASONS

A SNOW SCENE FROM WINTER

The keener tempests come: and fuming dun

From all the livid east, or piercing north, Thick clouds ascend-in whose capacious womb

A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congealed.
Heavy they roll their fleecy world along;
And the sky saddens with the gathered storm.
Through the hushed air the whitening shower
descends,

At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day 231

With a continual flow. The cherished fields
Put on their winter-robe of purest white.
'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow
melts

Along the mazy current. Low, the woods
Bow their hoar head; and, ere the languid sun
Faint from the west emits his evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill,
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-

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Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands

The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which Providence assigns them. One alone,
The redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first
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Against the window beats; then, brisk,
alights

On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,

Eyes all the smiling family askance,

And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is

Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare,

Though timorous of heart, and hard beset

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THE SHEEP-WASHING
FROM SUMMER

Or rushing thence, in one diffusive band, They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog Compelled, to where the mazy-running brook Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high,

And that, fair-spreading in a pebbled shore. Urged to the giddy brink, much is the toil, The clamour much, of men, and boys, and dogs,

Ere the soft, fearful people to the flood Commit their woolly sides. And oft the swain,

On some impatient seizing, hurls them in: 380
Emboldened then, nor hesitating more,
Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing wave,
And panting labour to the farther shore.
Repeated this, till deep the well-washed fleece
Has drunk the flood, and from his lively
haunt

The trout is banished by the sordid stream;
Heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow
Slow move the harmless race; where, as they
spread

Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray, Inly disturbed, and wondering what this wild Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints

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The country fill and, tossed from rock to rock,

Incessant bleatings run around the hills.
At last, of snowy white, the gathered flocks
Are in the wattled pen innumerous pressed,
Head above head; and ranged in lusty rows
The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding
shears.

The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores,
With all her gay-drest maids attending round.
One, chief, in gracious dignity enthroned, 400

Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays

Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherdking;

While the glad circle round them yield their souls

To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall.
Meantime, their joyous task goes on apace:
Some mingling stir the melted tar, and some,
Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side,
To stamp his master's cypher ready stand;
Others the unwilling wether drag along; 409
And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy
Holds by the twisted horns the indignant ram.
Behold where bound, and of its robe bereft,
By needy man, that all-depending lord,
How meek, how patient, the mild creature
lies!

What softness in its melancholy face,

What dumb complaining innocence appears!
Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the knife
Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved;
No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears,
Who having now, to pay his annual care, 420
Borrowed your fleece, to you a cumbrous load,
Will send you bounding to your hills again.

THE COMING OF THE RAIN
FROM SPRING

At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise,
Scarce staining ether; but by fast degrees,
In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails
Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep, 150
Sits on the 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 through the closing woods,
Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves
Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods, diffused
In glassy breadth, seem through delusive
lapse

Forgetful of their course. "Tis silence all, 161
And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks
Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye
The fallen verdure. Hushed in short suspense
The plumy people streak their wings with oil,
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off;
And wait the approaching sign to strike, at
once,

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Defeating oft the labours of the year,
The sultry south collects a potent blast.
At first, the groves are scarcely seen to stir
Their trembling tops, and a still murmur runs
Along the soft-inclining fields of corn;
But as the aërial tempest fuller swells,
And in one mighty stream, invisible,
Immense, the whole excited atmosphere
Impetuous rushes o'er the sounding world,
Strained to the root, the stooping forest pours
A rustling shower of yet untimely leaves. 321
High-beat, the circling mountains eddy in,
From the bare wild, the dissipated storm,
And send it in a torrent down the vale.
Exposed, and naked, to its utmost rage,
Through all the sea of harvest rolling round,
The billowy plain floats wide; nor can evade,
Though pliant to the blast, its seizing force -
Or whirled in air, or into vacant chaff 329
Shook waste. And sometimes too a burst of
rain,

Swept from the black horizon, broad, descends
In one continuous flood. Still over head
The mingling tempest weaves its gloom, and
still

The deluge deepens; till the fields around
Lie sunk, and flatted, in the sordid wave.
Sudden, the ditches swell; the meadows
swim.

Red, from the hills, innumerable streams Tumultuous roar; and high above its banks The river lift; before whose rushing tide, Herds, flocks, and harvests, cottages, and swains, 340

Roll mingled down: all that the winds had spared,

In one wild moment ruined; the big hopes, And well-earned treasures of the painful year.

Fled to some eminence, the husbandman,
Helpless, beholds the miserable wreck
Driving along; his drowning ox at once
Descending, with his labours scattered round,
He sees; and instant o'er his shivering thought
Comes Winter unprovided, and a train
Of clamant children dear. Ye masters, then,
Be mindful of the rough laborious hand 351
That sinks you soft in elegance and ease;
Be mindful of those limbs, in russet1 clad,
Whose toil to yours is warmth and graceful
pride;

And, oh, be mindful of that sparing board
Which covers yours with luxury profuse,
Makes your glass sparkle, and your sense
rejoice!

Nor cruelly demand what the deep rains
And all-involving winds have swept away.

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While o'er the enfeebling lute his hand he flung.

And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung:

"Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold! See all but man with unearned pleasure gay: See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May!

What youthful bride can equal her array? Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray,

From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly,

Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky.

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"Come, ye who still the cumbrous load of life

Push hard up-hill; but as the farthest steep

You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep,

And hurls your labours to the valley deep,
Forever vain: come, and, withouten fee,
I in oblivion will your sorrows steep,

Your cares, your toils; will steep you in a

sea

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Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak. Rule, Britannia, etc.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
But work their woe and thy renown.
Rule, Britannia, etc.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main,1 And every shore it circles thine. Rule, Britannia, etc.

The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;

Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair!
Rule, Britannia, etc.

JOHN DYER (1700?-1758)

FROM GRONGAR HILL3 Silent Nymph, with curious eye, Who, the purple evening, 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

5

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 landskip 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,
Sate upon a flowery bed,

With my hand beneath my head;

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3 ocean 2 always a hill in southwest Wales 4 peak 5 cf. L'Allegro, 1. 70

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