Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/77

The sounding culver shoots; or where the hawk, 450
High, in the beetling cliff, his airy builds.
There let the classic page thy fancy lead
Thro' rural scenes; such as the Mantuan swain
Paints in the matchless harmony of song.
Or catch thyself the landskip, gliding swift 455
Athwart imagination's vivid eye:
Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd,
And lost in lonely musing, in the dream,
Confus'd, of careless solitude, where mix
Ten thousand wandering images of things, 460
Soothe every gust of passion into peace;
All but the swellings of the soften'd heart,
That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind.

Behold yon breathing prospect bids the Muse
Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint 465
Like Nature? Can imagination boast,
Amid it's gay creation, hues like her's?
Or can it mix them with that matchless skill,
And lose them in each other, as appears
In every bud that blows? If fancy then 470
Unequal fails beneath the pleasing task,
Ah what shall language do? Ah where find words
Ting'd with so many colours; and whose power,
To life approaching, may perfume my lays
With that fine oil, those aromatic gales, 475
That inexhaustive flow continual round?

Yet, tho' successless, will the toil delight.
Come then, ye virgins, and ye youths, whose hearts
Have felt the raptures of refining love:
And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song! 480
Form'd by the Graces, loveliness itself!
Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet,