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But trees and rivulets, whose rapid course
Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer,
And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs,
And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time
Peeps through the moss, that clothes the hawthorn

root,
Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth,
Not shy, as in the World, and to be won
By slow solicitation, seize at once
The roving thought, and fix it on themselves.

What prodigies can pow'r divine perform More grand than it produces year by year, And all in sight of inattentive man? Familiar with the effect we slight the cause, And in the constancy of nature's course, The regular return of genial months, And renovation of a faded world, See nought to wonder at. Should God again, As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race Of the undeviating and punctual sun, How would the World admire! but speaks it less An agency divine, to make him know His moment when to sink and when to rise,

Age after

age,

than to arrest his course?
All we behold is miracle; but, seen
So duly, all is miracle in vain.
Where now the vital energy,

that mov'd, While summer was, the pure

and subtle lymph Through th' imperceptible meand'ring veins Of leaf and flow'r? It sleeps; and th' icy touch Of unprolific winter has impress'd A cold stagnation on th' intestine tide. But let the months go round, a few short months, And all shall be restor'd. These naked shoots, Barren as lances, among which the wind Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes, Shall put their graceful foliage on again, And more aspiring, and with ampler spread, Shall boast new charms, and more than they have

lost.
Then each, in it's peculiar honours clad,
Shall publish even to the distant

eye
It's family and tribe. Laburnum, rich
In streaming gold; syringa, iv'ry pure;
The scentless and the scented rose; this red,
And of an humbler growth, the other* tall,

* The Guelder-rose.

And throwing up into the darkest gloom
Of neighb'ring cypress, or more,

sable

yew, Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf, That the wind severs from the broken wave; The lilac, various in array, now white, Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set With purple spikes pyramidal, as if Studious of ornament, yet unresolv'd Which hue she most approv’d, she chose them all; Copious of flow'rs the woodbine, pale and wan, But well compensating her sickly looks With never-cloying odours, early and late; Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm Of flow'rs, like flies clothing her slender rods, That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too, Though leafless, well attir'd, and thick beset With blushing wreaths, investing ev'ry spray; Althæa with the purple eye; the broom, Yellow and bright, as bullion unalloy'd, Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd leaf Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more. The bright profusion of her scatter'd stars.These have been, and these shall be in their day;

And all this uniform uncolour'd scene
Shall be dismantled of it's fleecy load,
And flush into variety again.
From dearth to plenty, and from death to life,
Is Nature's progress, when she lectures man
In heav'nly truth; evincing, as she makes
The grand transition, that there lives and works
A soul in all things, and that soul is God.
The beauties of the wilderness are his,
That makes so gay the solitary place,
Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms,
That cultivation glories in, are his.
He sets the bright procession on it's way,
And marshals all the order of the year ;
He marks the bounds, which Winter

may

not pass, And blunts his pointed fury; in it's case, Russet and rude, folds up the tender germe, Uninjur'd, with inimitable art; And, ere one flow'ry season fades and dies, Designs the blooming wonders of the next.

Some say that in the origin of things, When all creation started into birth, The infant elements receiv'd a law,

From which they swerve not since. That under force
Of that controlling ordinance they move,
And need not his immediate hand, who first
Prescrib’d their course, to regulate il now.
Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God
Th’incumbrance of his own concerns, and spare
The great artificer of all that moves
The stress of a continual act, the pain
Of unremitted vigilance and care,
As too laborious and severe a task.
So man, the moth, is not afraid, seems,
To span omnipotence, and measure might,
That knows no measure, by the scanty rule
And standard of his own, that is to day,
And is not ere to morrow's sun go down.
But how should matter occupy a charge,
Dull as it is, and satisfy a law
So vast in it's demands, unless impellid
To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force,
And under pressure of some conscious cause?
The Lord of all, himself through all diffus’d,
Sustains, and is the life of all that lives.
Nature is but a name for an effect,
Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire,

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