Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/66

From the moist meadow to the withered hill,
Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs,
And swells, and deepens, to the cherish'd eye.
The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves
Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees,90
Till the whole leafy forest stands display'd,
In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales:
While the deer rustle thro' the twining brake,
And the birds sing conceal'd. At once, array'd
In all the colours of the flushing year,95
By nature's swift and secret-working hand,
The garden glows, and fills the liberal air
With lavish fragrance; while the promis'd fruit
Lies yet a little embryo, unperceiv'd,
Within its crimson folds. Now from the town100
Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisom damps,
Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields,
Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops
From the bent bush, as thro' the verdant maze
Of sweet-briar hedges I pursue my walk:105
Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend
Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains,
And see the country far-diffus'd around,
One boundless blush, one white-empurpled show'r
Of mingled blossoms; where the raptured eye110
Hurries from joy to joy, and, hid beneath
The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies.

If brush'd from Russian wilds, a cutting gale
Rise not, and scatter from his humid wings
The clammy mildew; or dry-blowing, breathe115
Untimely frost; before whose baleful blast
The full-blown Spring thro' all her foliage shrinks,
Joyless and dead, a wide-dejected waste.

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