Classic Poem

Come, gentle Spring, ethereal Mildness come;
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While Music wakes around, veil'd in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
O Hertford, fitted or to shine in courts
With unaffected grace, or walk the plain
With Innocence and Meditation join'd
In soft assemblage, listen to my Song,
Which thy own Season paints; when Nature all
Is blooming, and benevolent, like thee.
And see where surly Winter passes off,
Far to the North, and calls his ruffian Blasts:
His Blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,
The shatter'd forest, and the ravaged vale;
While softer Gales succeed, at whose kind touch,
Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,
The Mountains lift their green heads to the sky.
As yet the trembling Year is unconfirm'd,
And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale Morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the Day delightless: so that scarce
The Bittern knows his time, with bill ingulf'd,
To shake the sounding marsh; or from the shore
The Plovers when to scatter o'er the heath,
And sing their wild notes to the listening waste.
At last from Aries rolls the bounteous Sun,
And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more
The expansive atmosphere is cramp'd with cold;
But, full of life and vivifying soul,
Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads them thin,
Fleecy, and white, o'er all-surrounding Heaven.
Forth fly the tepid Airs: and unconfined,
Unbinding Earth, the moving Softness strays.
Joyous, the impatient Husbandman perceives
Relenting Nature, and his lusty steers
Drives from their stalls, to where the well used plough
Lies in the furrow, loosen'd from the frost.
There, unrefusing, to the harness'd yoke
They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil,
Cheer'd by the simple song and soaring lark.
Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share
The Master leans, removes the obstructing clay,
Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe.
White, through the neighbouring fields the Sow er stalks,
With measured step; and, liberal, throws the grain
Into the faithful bosom of the Ground;
The Harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene.
Be gracious, Heaven! for now laborious Man
Has done his part. Ye fostering Breezes, blow
Ye softening Dews, ye tender Showers, descend!
And temper all, thou world-reviving Sun,
Into the perfect year! Nor ye who live
In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride,
Think these last Themes unworthy of your ear:
Such themes as these the rural Maro sung
To wide-imperial Rome, in the full height
Of elegance and taste, by Greece refined.
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, with victorious hand,
Disdaining little delicacies, seized
The Plough, and, greatly independent, scorned
All the vile stores Corruption can bestow.
Ye generous Britons, venerate the Plough;
And o'er your hills, and long withdrawing vales,
Let Autumn spread his treasures to the Sun,
Luxuriant and unbounded! As the Sea,
Far through his azure turbulent domain,
Your empire owns, and from a thousand shores
Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports;
So with superior boon may your rich soil,
Exuberant, Nature's better blessings pour
O'er every land, the naked nations clothe,
And be the exhaustless granary of a world!
Nor only through the lenient air this change,
Delicious, breathes; the penetrative Sun,
His force deep-darting to the dark retreat
Of Vegetation, sets the steaming Power
At large, to wander o'er the vernant Earth,
In various hues; but chiefly thee, gay Green,
Thou smiling Nature's universal robe!
United light and shade! where the Sight dwells
With growing strength and ever-new delight.
From the moist meadow to the wither'd 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,
Till the whole leafy Forest stands display'd,
In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales;
Where the Deer rustle through the twining brake,
And the Birds sing conceal'd. At once, array'd
In all the colours of the flushing Year,
By Nature's swift and secret working Hand,
The Garden glows, and fills the liberal air
With lavish fragance; while the promised Fruit
Lies yet a little embryo, unperceived,
Within its crimson folds. Now from the Town
Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps,
Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields,
Where Freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops
From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze
Of sweetbriar hedges I pursue my walk;
Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend
Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains,
And see the country, far diffused around,
One boundless blush, one white-empurpled showe.
Of mingled blossoms; where the raptured Eye
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, breathe
Untimely Frost; before whose baleful Blast
The full-blown Spring through all her foliage shrinks,
Joyless and dead, a wide-dejected waste.
For oft, engender'd by the hazy North,
Myriads on myriads, Insect-armies waft
Keen in the poison'd breeze; and wasteful eat,
Through buds and bark, into the blacken'd Core,
Their eager way. A feeble Race, yet oft
The sacred Sons of Vengeance; on whose course
Corrosive Famine waits, and kills the Year.
To check this Plague, the skilful Farmer chaff
And blazing straw before his orchard burns;
Till, all involved in smoke, the latent Foe
From every cranny suffocated falls;
Or scatters o'er the blooms the pungent dust
Of pepper, fatal to the frosty Tribe;
Or, when the envenom'd leaf begins to curl,
With sprinkled water drowns them in their nest;
Nor, while they pick them up with busy bill,
The little trooping Birds unwisely scares.
Be patient, Swains; these cruel-seeming Winds
Blow not in vain. Far hence they keep, repress'd,
Those deepening clouds on clouds, surcharged with rain,
That, o'er the vast Atlantic hither borne,
In endless train, would quench the summer-blaze,
And, cheerless, drown the crude unripen'd Year.
The North-east spends his rage; and now, shut up
Within his iron caves, the effusive South
Warms the wide Air, and o'er the void of Heaven
Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent.
At first a dusky Wreath they seem to rise,
Scarce staining Ether; but by fast degrees,
In heaps on heaps, the doubling Vapour sails
Along the loaded sky, and, mingling deep,
Sits on the horizon round a settled gloom:
Not such as wintry Storms on Mortals shed,
Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind,
And full of every hope and every joy,
The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the Breeze
Into a perfect calm; that not a Breath
Is heard to quiver through the closing woods,
Or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves
Of Aspin tall. The uncurling Floods, diffused
In glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse
Forgetful of their course. 'Tis Silence all,
And pleasing Expectation. Herds and Flocks
Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye
The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspense,
The plumy People streak their wings with oil,
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off;
And wait the approaching sign to strike, at once,
Into the general choir. Even Mountains, Vales,
And Forests seem, impatient, to demand
The promised sweetness. Man superior walks
Amid the glad Creation, musing praise,
And looking lively gratitude. At last,
The Clouds consign their treasures to the fields,
And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool
Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow,
In large effusion, o'er the freshen'd world.
The stealing Shower is scarce to patter heard,
By such as wander through the forest-walks,
Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves.
But who can hold the shade, while Heaven descends
In universal bounty, shedding herbs,
And fruits, and flowers, on Nature's ample lap?
Swift Fancy fired anticipates their growth;
And, while the milky nutriment distils,
Beholds the kindling Country colour round.
Thus all day long the full-distended Clouds
Indulge their genial stores, and well-shower'd Earth
Is deep enrich'd with vegetable life;
Till, in the western sky, the downward Sun
Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush
Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam.
The rapid Radiance instantaneous strikes
The illumined mountain, through the forest streams,
Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist,
Far smoking o'er the interminable plain,
In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems.
Moist, bright, and green, the Landskip laughs around.
Full swell the Woods; their every Music wakes,
Mix'd in wild concert, with the warbling Brooks
Increased, the distant bleatings of the Hills,
The hollow lows responsive from the Vales,
Whence, blending all, the sweeten'd Zephyr springs,
Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud,
Bestriding Earth, the grand ethereal Bow
Shoots up immense; and every hue unfolds,
In fair proportion, running from the Red
To where the Violet fades into the sky.
Here, awful Newton, the dissolving Clouds
Form, fronting on the Sun, thy showery Prism;
And to the sage-instructed Eye unfold
The various Twine of Light, by thee disclosed
From the white mingling maze. Not so the Swain
He, wondering, views the bright Enchantment bend,
Delightful, o'er the radiant fields, and runs
To catch the falling glory; but, amazed,
Beholds the amusive Arch before him fly,
Then vanish quite away. Still Night succeeds,
A softened shade, and saturated Earth
Awaits the Morning beam, to give to light,
Raised through ten thousand different plastic tubes
The balmy treasures of the former day.
Then spring the living Herbs, profusely wild,
O'er all the deep-green earth, beyond the power
Of Botanist to number up their tribes:
Whether he steals along the lonely Dale,
In silent search; or through the Forest, rank
With what the dull incurious Weeds account,
Bursts his blind way; or climbs the mountain Rock,
Fired by the nodding Verdure of its brow.
With such a liberal hand has Nature flung
Their Seeds abroad, blown them about in winds,
Innumerous mixed them with the nursing mould,
The moistening current, and prolific rain.
But who their Virtues can declare? Who pierce,
With vision pure, into these secret stores
Of Health, and Life, and Joy? the Food of Man,
While yet he lived in innocence, and told
A length of golden years, unflesh'd in blood,
A Stranger to the savage arts of life,
Death, rapine, carnage, surfeit, and disease,
The Lord, and not the Tyrant, of the world.
The first fresh Dawn then waked the gladden'd Race
Of uncorrupted Man, nor blush'd to see
The Sluggard sleep beneath its sacred beam.
For their light slumbers gently fumed away;
And up they rose as vigorous as the Sun,
Or to the culture of the willing glebe,
Or to the cheerful tendance of the Flock.
Meantime the Song went round; and dance and sport,
Wisdom and friendly talk, successive stole
Their Hours away. While in the rosy vale
Love breath'd his infant sighs, from anguish free,
And full replete with bliss; save the sweet pain,
That, inly thrilling, but exalts it more.
Nor yet injurious act, nor surly deed,
Was known among these happy Sons of Heaven;
For reason and benevolence were law.
Harmonious Nature too look'd smiling on.
Clear shone the skies, cool'd with eternal gales,
And balmy spirit all. The youthful Sun
Shot his best rays, and still the gracious Clouds
Dropp'd fatness down; as o'er the swelling mead
The Herds and Flocks, commixing, play'd secure.
This when, emergent from the gloomy wood,
The glaring Lion saw, his horrid heart
Was meeken'd, and he join'd his sullen joy.
For Music held the whole in perfect peace:
Soft sighed the Flute; the tender Voice was heard,
Warbling the varied heart; the Woodlands round
Applied their quire; and Winds and Waters flow'd
In consonance. Such were those prime of days.
But now those white unblemish'd Manners, whence
The fabling Poets took their Golden Age,
Are found no more amid these Iron Times—
These dregs of life! Now the distemper'd Mind
Has lost that concord of harmonious powers
Which forms the Soul of happiness; and all
Is off the poise within: the Passions all
Have burst their bounds; and Reason half extinct
Or impotent, or else approving, sees
The foul disorder. Senseless and deform'd,
Convulsive Anger storms at large; or, pale
And silent, settles into fell revenge.
Base Envy withers at another's joy,
And hates that excellence it cannot reach.
Desponding Fear, of feeble fancies full,
Weak and unmanly, loosens every power.
Even Love itself is bitterness of soul,
A pensive anguish pining at the heart:
Or, sunk to sordid interest, feels no more
That noble wish, that never cloy'd desire,
Which, selfish joy disdaining, seeks alone
To bless the dearer Object of its flame.
Hope sickens with extravagance; and Grief,
Of life impatient, into madness swells;
Or in dead silence wastes the weeping hours.
These, and a thousand mixt emotions more,
From ever-changing views of good and ill,
Form'd infinitely various, vex the Mind
With endless storm. Whence, deeply rankling, grows
The partial thought, a listless unconcern,
Cold, and averting from our Neighbour's good;
Then dark Disgust and Hatred, winding Wiles,
Coward Deceit, and ruffian Violence.
At last, extinct each social feeling, fell
And joyless Inhumanity pervades
And petrifies the heart. Nature disturb'd
Is deem'd, vindictive, to have chang'd her course.
Hence, in old dusky time, a Deluge came:
When the deep-cleft disparting orb, that arch'd
The central waters round, impetuous rush'd,
With universal burst, into the gulf,
And o'er the high-piled hills of fractured earth
Wide dash'd the Waves, in undulation vast;
Till, from the centre to the streaming clouds,
A shoreless ocean tumbled round the globe.
The Seasons since have, with severer sway,
Oppress'd a broken world: the Winter keen
Shook forth his waste of snows; and Summer shot
His pestilential heats. Great Spring, before,
Green'd all the year; and fruits and blossoms blush'd,
In social sweetness, on the selfsame bough.
Pure was the temperate Air; an even Calm
Perpetual reign'd, save what the Zephyrs bland
Breathed o'er the blue expanse: for then nor Storms
Were taught to blow, nor Hurricanes to rage;
Sound slept the Waters; no sulphureous Glooms
Swell'd in the sky, and sent the lightning forth;
While sickly Damps, and cold autumnal Fogs,
Hung not, relaxing, on the springs of life.
But now, of turbid elements the sport,
From clear to cloudy tost, from hot to cold,
And dry to moist, with inward-eating change,
Our drooping Days are dwindled down to nought.
Their period finish'd ere 'tis well begun.
And yet the wholesome Herb neglected dies;
Though with the pure exhilarating soul
Of nutriment and health, and vital powers,
Beyond the search of art, 'tis copious blest.
For, with hot ravine fired, ensanguined Man
Is now become the lion of the plain,
And worse. The Wolf, who from the nightly fold
Fierce drags the bleating prey, ne'er drunk her milk,
Nor wore her warming fleece: nor has the Steer,
At whose strong chest the deadly tiger hangs,
E'er plough'd for him. They too are temper'd high,
With hunger stung, and wild necessity;
Nor lodges Pity in their shaggy breast.
But Man, whom Nature form'd of milder clay,
With every kind emotion in his heart,
And taught alone to weep—while from her lap
She pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs,
And fruits, as numerous as the drops of rain
Or beams that gave them birth—shall he, fair form,
Who wears sweet smiles, and looks erect on Heaven,
E'er stoop to mingle with the prowling herd,
And dip his tongue in gore? The Beast of prey,
Blood-stain'd, deserves to bleed: but you, ye Flocks,
What have you done; ye peaceful People, what,
To merit death? You, who have given us milk
In luscious streams, and lent us your own coat
Against the Winter's cold? And the plain Ox,
That ha