His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil

Incurring short fatigue; and, though our years,

As life declines, speed rapidly away,

And not a year but pilfers as he goes

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Some youthful grace, that age would gladly keep; A tooth, or auburn lock, and by degrees

Their length and colour from the locks they spare;
Th' elastic spring of an unwearied foot,

That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence,
That play of lungs, inhaling and again
Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes

Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me,

Mine have not pilfer'd yet; nor yet impair'd 140
My relish of fair prospect; scenes that sooth'd
Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find
Still soothing, and of pow'r to charm me still.
And witness, dear companion of my walks,
Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive
Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love,
Confirm'd by long experince of thy worth

And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire

Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.

Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, 150 And that my raptures are not conjur❜d up

To serve occasions of poetic pomp,

But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our pace

Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne
The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew,
While Admiration feeding at the eye,

And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.

Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd
The distant plough slow moving, and beside 160
His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track,
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along his sinuous course
Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank,
Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'ritè elms,

That screen the herdsman's solitary hut;

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While far beyond, and overthwart the stream,
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,
The sloping land recedes into the clouds;
Displaying on it's varied side the grace
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r,
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells.
Just undulates upon the list'ning ear,

Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily view'd,
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that I describe.

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

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The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,
That sweep
the skirt of some far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike

The dash of Ocean on his winding shore,

And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;
Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves fast flutt'ring, all at once.
Nor less composure waits upon the roar

Of distant floods, or on the softer voice

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Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills that slip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their silent course.
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
But animated nature sweeter still,

To sooth and satisfy the human ear.

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 200

The livelong night: nor these alone, whose notes Nice finger'd Art must emulate in vain,

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud,

The jay, the pie, and ev'n the boding owl,

That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.

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Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,

Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, And only there, please highly for their sake.

Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought 210 Devis'd the weatherhouse, that useful toy!

Fearless of humid air and gath'ring rains,
Forth steps the man-an emblem of myself!
More delicate, his tim'rous mate retires.

When winter soaks the fields, and female feet,
Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,
Or ford the rivulets, are best at home,

The task of new discov'ries falls on me.

At such a season, and with such a charge,

Once went I forth; and found, till then unknown,

A cottage, whither oft we since repair:

Tis perch'd upon the green hill top, but close
Environ'd with a ring of branching elms,
That overhang the thatch, itself unseen
Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset

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