James Thomson (जेम्स थॉमसन)

Sweet Ravelrig, I ne'er could part,From thee, but wi' a dowie heart.

When I think on the happy days,I spent in youth about your braes.

When innocence my steps did guide,Where murmuring streams did sweetly glide.

Beside the braes well stored wi' trees,And sweetest flow'rs that fend the bees.

And there the tuneful tribe doth sing,While lightly flitting on the wing.

And conscious peace was ever found,Within your mansion to abound.

Sweet be thy former owner's rest,And peace to him that's now possess't.

Of all thy beauties great and small,Lang may he live to bruik them all!.

See! Winter comes, to rule the varied Year,Sullen, and sad; with all his rising Train.

Vapours, and Clouds, and Storms: Be these my Theme,These, that exalt the Soul to solemn Thought.

And heavenly musing. Welcome kindred Glooms!,Wish'd, wint'ry, Horrors, hail! -- With frequent Foot.

Pleas'd, have I, in my cheerful Morn of Life,When, nurs'd by careless Solitude, I liv'd.

And sung of Nature with unceasing Joy,Pleas'd, have I wander'd thro' your rough Domains.

Trod the pure, virgin, Snows, my self as pure,Heard the Winds roar, and the big Torrent burst.

Or seen the deep, fermenting, Tempest brew'd,In the red, evening, Sky. -- Thus pass'd the Time.

Till, thro' the opening Chambers of the South,Look'd out the joyous Spring, look'd out, and smil'd.

THEE too, Inspirer of the toiling Swain!,Fair AUTUMN, yellow rob'd! I'll sing of thee.

Of thy last, temper'd, Days, and sunny Calms,When all the golden Hours are on the Wing.

Attending thy Retreat, and round thy Wain,Slow-rolling, onward to the Southern Sky.

BEHOLD! the well-pois'd Hornet, hovering, hangs,With quivering Pinions, in the genial Blaze.

Flys off, in airy Circles: then returns,And hums, and dances to the beating Ray.

Nor shall the Man, that, musing, walks alone,And, heedless, strays within his radiant Lists.

Go unchastis'd away. -- Sometimes, a Fleece,Of Clouds, wide-scattering, with a lucid Veil.

Soft, shadow o'er th'unruffled Face of Heaven,And, thro' their dewy Sluices, shed the Sun.

With temper'd Influence down. Then is the Time,For those, whom Wisdom, and whom Nature charm.

To steal themselves from the degenerate Croud,And soar above this little Scene of Things.

To tread low-thoughted Vice beneath their Feet,To lay their Passions in a gentle Calm.

And woo lone Quiet, in her silent Walks,NOW, solitary, and in pensive Guise.

Oft, let me wander o'er the russet Mead,Or thro' the pining Grove; where scarce is heard.

One dying Strain, to chear the Woodman's Toil,Sad Philomel, perchance, pours forth her Plaint.

Far, thro' the withering Copse. Mean while, the Leaves,That, late, the Forest clad with lively Green.

Nipt by the drizzly Night, and Sallow-hu'd,Fall, wavering, thro' the Air; or shower amain.

Urg'd by the Breeze, that sobs amid the Boughs,Then list'ning Hares forsake the rusling Woods.

And, starting at the frequent Noise, escape,To the rough Stubble, and the rushy Fen.

Then Woodcocks, o'er the fluctuating Main,That glimmers to the Glimpses of the Moon.

Stretch their long Voyage to the woodland Glade,Where, wheeling with uncertain Flight, they mock.

The nimble Fowler's Aim. -- Now Nature droops,Languish the living Herbs, with pale Decay.

And all the various Family of Flowers,Their sunny Robes resign. The falling Fruits.

Thro' the still Night, forsake the Parent-Bough,That, in the first, grey, Glances of the Dawn.

Looks wild, and wonders at the wintry Waste,THE Year, yet pleasing, but declining fast.

Soft, o'er the secret Soul, in gentle Gales,A Philosophic Melancholly breathes.

And bears the swelling Thought aloft to Heaven,Then forming Fancy rouses to conceive.

What never mingled with the Vulgar's Dream,Then wake the tender Pang, the pitying Tear.

The Sigh for suffering Worth, the Wish prefer'd,For Humankind, the Joy to see them bless'd.

And all the Social Off-spring of the Heart!,OH! bear me then to high, embowering, Shades.

To twilight Groves, and visionary Vales,To weeping Grottos, and to hoary Caves.

Where Angel-Forms are seen, and Voices heard,Sigh'd in low Whispers, that abstract the Soul.

From outward Sense, far into Worlds remote,NOW, when the Western Sun withdraws the Day.

And humid Evening, gliding o'er the Sky,In her chill Progress, checks the straggling Beams.

And robs them of their gather'd, vapoury, Prey,Where Marshes stagnate, and where Rivers wind.

Cluster the rolling Fogs, and swim along,The dusky-mantled Lawn: then slow descend.

Once more to mingle with their Watry Friends,The vivid Stars shine out, in radiant Files.

And boundless Ether glows, till the fair Moon,Shows her broad Visage, in the crimson'd East.

Now, stooping, seems to kiss the passing Cloud,Now, o'er the pure Cerulean, rides sublime.

Wide the pale Deluge floats, with silver Waves,O'er the sky'd Mountain, to the low-laid Vale.

From the white Rocks, with dim Reflexion, gleams,And faintly glitters thro' the waving Shades.

ALL Night, abundant Dews, unnoted, fall,And, at Return of Morning, silver o'er.

The Face of Mother-Earth; from every Branch,Depending, tremble the translucent Gems.

And, quivering, seem to fall away, yet cling,And sparkle in the Sun, whose rising Eye.

With Fogs bedim'd, portends a beauteous Day,NOW, giddy Youth, whom headlong Passions fire.

Rouse the wild Game, and stain the guiltless Grove,With Violence, and Death; yet call it Sport.

To scatter Ruin thro' the Realms of Love,And Peace, that thinks no Ill: But These, the Muse.

Whose Charity, unlimited, extends,As wide as Nature works, disdains to sing.

Returning to her nobler Theme in view --,FOR, see! where Winter comes, himself, confest.

Striding the gloomy Blast. First Rains obscure,Drive thro' the mingling Skies, with Tempest foul.

Beat on the Mountain's Brow, and shake the Woods,That, sounding, wave below. The dreary Plain.

Lies overwhelm'd, and lost. The bellying Clouds,Combine, and deepening into Night, shut up.

The Day's fair Face. The Wanderers of Heaven,Each to his Home, retire; save those that love.

To take their Pastime in the troubled Air,And, skimming, flutter round the dimply Flood.

The Cattle, from th'untasted Fields, return,And ask, with Meaning low, their wonted Stalls.

Or ruminate in the contiguous Shade,Thither, the houshold, feathery, People croud.

The crested Cock, with all his female Train,Pensive, and wet. Mean while, the Cottage-Swain.

Hangs o'er th'enlivening Blaze, and, taleful, there,Recounts his simple Frolic: Much he talks.

And much he laughs, nor recks the Storm that blows,Without, and rattles on his humble Roof.

AT last, the muddy Deluge pours along,Resistless, roaring; dreadful down it comes.

From the chapt Mountain, and the mossy Wild,Tumbling thro' Rocks abrupt, and sounding far.

Then o'er the sanded Valley, floating, spreads,Calm, sluggish, silent; till again constrain'd.

Betwixt two meeting Hills, it bursts a Way,Where Rocks, and Woods o'erhang the turbid Stream.

There gathering triple Force, rapid, and deep,It boils, and wheels, and foams, and thunders thro'.

NATURE! great Parent! whose directing Hand,Rolls round the Seasons of the changeful Year.

How mighty! how majestick are thy Works!,With what a pleasing Dread they swell the Soul.

That sees, astonish'd! and, astonish'd sings!,You too, ye Winds! that now begin to blow.

With boisterous Sweep, I raise my Voice to you,Where are your Stores, ye viewless Beings! say?.

Where your aerial Magazines reserv'd,Against the Day of Tempest perilous?.

In what untravel'd Country of the Air,Hush'd in still Silence, sleep you, when 'tis calm?.

LATE, in the louring Sky, red, fiery, Streaks,Begin to flush about; the reeling Clouds.

Stagger with dizzy Aim, as doubting yet,Which Master to obey: while rising, slow.

Sad, in the Leaden-colour'd East, the Moon,Wears a bleak Circle round her sully'd Orb.

Then issues forth the Storm, with loud Control,And the thin Fabrick of the pillar'd Air.

O'erturns, at once. Prone, on th'uncertain Main,Descends th'Etherial Force, and plows its Waves.

With dreadful Rift: from the mid-Deep, appears,Surge after Surge, the rising, wat'ry, War.

Whitening, the angry Billows rowl immense,And roar their Terrors, thro' the shuddering Soul.

Of feeble Man, amidst their Fury caught,And, dash'd upon his Fate: Then, o'er the Cliff.

Where dwells the Sea-Mew, unconfin'd, they fly,And, hurrying, swallow up the steril Shore.

THE Mountain growls; and all its sturdy Sons,Stoop to the Bottom of the Rocks they shade.

Lone, on its Midnight-Side, and all aghast,The dark, way-faring, Stranger, breathless, toils.

And climbs against the Blast --,Low, waves the rooted Forest, vex'd, and sheds.

What of its leafy Honours yet remains,Thus, struggling thro' the dissipated Grove.

The whirling Tempest raves along the Plain,And, on the Cottage thacht, or lordly Dome.

Keen-fastening, shakes 'em to the solid Base,Sleep, frighted, flies; the hollow Chimney howls.

The Windows rattle, and the Hinges creak,THEN, too, they say, thro' all the burthen'd Air.