Or the Lily's dewy bell
In her gloffy white excel;
Or a garden vary'd o'er
With a thousand glories more?
By the beauties thefe difplay,
Morning, Ev'ning, Night or Day;
By the pleasures these excite,
Endlefs fources of delight-
MEMORY,
RECALLING THE SEASONS.
HE calls,-ideal groves their fhades extend, The cool gale breathes, the filent show'rs defcend.
Or, if bleak winter frowning round, Difrobe the trees and chill the ground, She, mild magician, waves her potent wand, And ready Summers wake at her command! See vifionary funs arise
Through filver clouds and azure skies; See fportive zephyrs fan the crifped ftreams, Through fhadowy brakes light glance the sparkling beams:
While near the fecret mofs-grown cave
That ftands befide the chryftal wave,
Sweet Echo, rifing from her rocky bed,
Mimics the feather'd chorus o'er her head.
EE Nature, gay as when fhe first began, With fmiles alluring her admirer, Man. She spreads the morning over eastern hills; Earth glitters with the drops that night diftils; The fun obedient, at her call appears
To fling his glories o'er the robe fhe wears; Banks cloth'd with flow'rs, groves fill'd with fprightly founds,
The yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rifing grounds.
Streams edg'd with oziers, fatt'ning ev'ry field Where'er they flow, now feen, and now con
From the blue rim where fkies and mountains
Down to the very turf beneath thy feet,
Ten thousand charms the giddy dare defpife,
Or pride can look at with indiff'rent eyes;
All speak one language,-all with one fweet
Cry to her univerfal realm,-"Rejoice!"
SWEET is the breath of morn, her rifing
With charm of earliest birds, pleasant the fun
When first on the delightful land he spreads
His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flow'r,
Glitt'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile fields.
After soft show'rs; and fweet the coming on
Of grateful ev'ning mild; then filent night,
With this her folemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heav'n, her starry train.
MILTON
EE how fublime th' uplifted mountains rife, And with their pointed heads invade the fkies,
How the high cliffs their craggy arms extend, Diftinguish ftates, and fever'd realms defend; How ambient fhores confine the reftlefs deep, And in their ancient bounds the billows keep.
The party-colour'd flow'rs of various hue,
Not eaftern monarchs on their nuptial day,
In dazzling gold and purple fhine fo
gay
As the bright natives of th' unlabor'd field,
Unvers'd in fpinning, and in looms unskill'd.
See how the rip'ning fruits the garden crown,
Imbibe the fun and make his light their own.
See the sweet brooks in filver mazes creep,
Enrich the meadows and fupply the deep;
While from their weeping urns the fountains
flow,
And vital moisture where they pafs, bestow.
Admire the narrow ftream and fpreading lake,
The proud afpiring groves and humble brake.
How do the forefts and the woods delight!
How the fweet glades and op'nings charm the
fight!
Obferve the pleafant lawn and airy plain,
The fertile furrows rich with various grain;
How useful all!-How all afpire to grace
Th' extended earth, and beautify her face.
ASK why the higheft of the rolling Spheres,
Deck'd to profufion with refulgent ftars,
And all with bright excrefcences emboss'd,
Has the whole beauty of the Heav'ns engrofs'd;
When of the others, to difpel the night,
Each owns a fingle folitary light.
Only one planet in a fphere is found,
Marching in air his melancholy round?
Nature, he tells us, took this prudent care,
That the fublimeft and the noblest sphere
Should be with nobler decorations blest,
And in magnificence outfhine the reft;
That fo its greater ornament and state
Should bear proportion with its greater height.
It seems then Nature does not only find
Means to be good, beneficent, and kind;
But has for beauty and for order car'd,-
Does rank, and ftate, and decency regard.
WHEN many colour'd Evʼning finks behind
The purple woods and hills, and oppofite
Rifes, full orb'd, the filver harvest moon,*
To light th' unweary'd farmer, late a-field,
His fcatter'd fheaves collecting-
PLANET of Harveft, oft in the dun east
Thy full autumnal orb let me behold
As from a furnace rifing, red with heat,
And as it mounts the purple steep of heav'n,
Glowing more ardent till it feem to reach
The point of fufion; and fufpended high,
A globe intense of molten bullion, hang
Amid the gems of night.-And let me hear
As thy dim orb, above th' horizon fwells
The fhout of Harvest Home, the loud huzza,
The nat❜ral hallelujah of the clown—
His chorus of thanksgiving for release.
She feels the moon beam warm.
Save the far diftant murmur of the deep,
Or the near grafshopper's inceffant note,
That fnug beneath the wall in comfort fits,
And chirping, imitates the filv'ry chink
Of wages told into the ploughman's palm.
* The Harvest Moon gives the mind a pleasing and grateful fatisfaction.
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