James Thomson

Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot.

Amid the roses fierce Repentance rears Her snaky crest.

What, but God? Inspiring God! who boundless Spirit all, And unremitting Energy, pervades, Adjusts, sustains, and agitates the whole.

While I deduce, From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings, The symphony of spring.

From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, Anemones, auritulas, enriched With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves.

The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue; And polyanthus of unnumbered dyes.

But who can paint Like Nature? Can imagination boast, Amid its gay creation, hues like hers?

But should you lure From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots Of pendent trees, the Monarch of the brook, Behoves you then to ply your finest art.

Pure was the temperate Air, an even Calm Perpetual reign'd, save what the Zephyrs bland Breath'd o'er the blue expanse.

Desponding Fear, of feeble fancies full, Weak and unmanly, loosens every power.

Base Envy withers at another’s joy, And hates that excellence it cannot reach.

'Tis silence all, And pleasing expectation.

The Hawthorn whitens; and the juicy Groves Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees, Till the whole leafy Forest stands displayed, In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales.

The negligence of Nature wide and wild, Where, undisguised by mimic art, she spreads Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.

In ancient times, the sacred Plough employ'd The Kings and awful Fathers of mankind: And some, with whom compared your insect-tribes Are but the beings of a summer's day, Have held the Scale of Empire, ruled the Storm Of mighty War; then, …

Senseless, and deformed, Convulsive Anger storms at large; or pale, And silent, settles into fell revenge.

Tutor'd by thee, hence Poetry exalts Her voice to ages; and informs the page With music, image, sentiment, and thought, Never to die! the treasure of mankind! Their highest honour, and their truest joy!

Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge, The glow-worm lights his gem; and through the dark, A moving radiance twinkles.

Who stemm'd the torrent of a downward age.

So stands the statue that enchants the world, So bending tries to veil the matchless boast, The mingled beauties of exulting Greece.

A lucky chance, that oft decides the fate Of mighty monarchs.

Even from the body's purity, the mind Receives a secret sympathetic aid.

Flocks thick-nibbling through the clovered vale.

Sighed and looked unutterable things.