English Poets of the Eighteenth Century eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 437 pages of information about English Poets of the Eighteenth Century.

  Of every hue from wan declining green
  To sooty dark.  These now the lonesome Muse,
  Low-whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walks,
  And give the season in its latest view. 
  Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm
  Fleeces unbounded ether, whose least wave
  Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn
  The gentle current, while, illumined wide,
  The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun,
  And through their lucid veil his softened force
  Shed o’er the peaceful world.  Then is the time,
  For those whom wisdom and whom nature charm,
  To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd,
  And soar above this little scene of things,
  To tread low-thoughted Vice beneath their feet,
  To soothe the throbbing passions into peace,
  And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks. 
  Thus solitary, and in pensive guise,
  Oft let me wander o’er the russet mead
  And through the saddened grove, where scarce is heard
  One dying strain to cheer the woodman’s toil. 
  Haply some widowed songster pours his plaint,
  Far, in faint warblings, through the tawny copse;
  While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks,
  And each wild throat whose artless strains so late
  Swelled all the music of the swarming shades,
  Robbed of their tuneful souls, now shivering sit
  On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock,
  With not a brightness waving o’er their plumes,
  And naught save chattering discord in their note. 
  Oh, let not, aimed from some inhuman eye,
  The gun the music of the coming year
  Destroy, and harmless, unsuspecting harm,
  Lay the weak tribes a miserable prey,
  In mingled murder fluttering on the ground! 
  The pale descending year, yet pleasing still,
  A gentler mood inspires:  for now the leaf
  Incessant rustles from the mournful grove,
  Oft startling such as, studious, walk below,
  And slowly circles through the waving air;
  But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs

  Sob, o’er the sky the leafy deluge streams,
  Till, choked and matted with the dreary shower,
  The forest walks, at every rising gale,
  Roll wide the withered waste and whistle bleak. 
  Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields,
  And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race
  Their sunny robes resign; even what remained
  Of stronger fruits fall from the naked tree;
  And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around,
  The desolated, prospect thrills the soul.



  These, as they change, Almighty Father, these,
  Are but the varied God.  The rolling year
  Is full of Thee.  Forth In the pleasing Spring
  Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
  Wide-flush the fields; the softening air is balm;
  Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;

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English Poets of the Eighteenth Century from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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