A simple scene! yet hence Britannia sees Her solid grandeur rise: hence she commands The exalted stores of every brighter clime, The treasures of the sun without his rage; Hence, fervent all, with culture, toil, and arts, Wide glows her land; her dreadful thunder hence Rides o'er the waves sublime, and now, even now, Impending hangs o'er Gallia's humbled coast; Hence rules the circling deep, and awes the world.
'Tis raging noon; and, vertical, the sun Darts on the head direct his forceful rays. O'er heaven and earth, far as the ranging eye Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all, From pole to pole, is undistinguish'd blaze. In vain the sight, dejected to the ground, Stoops for relief; thence hot ascending streams And keen reflection pain. Deep to the root Of vegetation parch'd, the cleaving fields And slippery lawn an arid hue disclose, Blast fancy's blooms, and wither even the soul. Echo no more returns the cheerful sound Of sharpening scythe; the mower, sinking, heaps O'er him the humid hay, with flowers perfum'd; And scarce a chirping grasshopper is heard Through the dumb mead. Distressful nature pants. The very streams look languid from afar; Or, through the unshelter'd glade, impatient, seem To hurl into the covert of the grove.
All conquering heat, oh, intermit thy wrath! And on my throbbing temples potent thus Beam not so fierce! Incessant still you flow, And still another fervent flood succeeds, Pour'd on the head profuse. In vain I sigh, And restless turn, and look around for night: Night is far off; and hotter hours approach. Thrice-happy be! who on the sunless side Of a romantic mountain, forest-crown'd, Beneath the whole-collected shade reclines, Or in the gelid caverns, woodbine-wrought, And fresh bedew'd with ever-spouting streams, Sits coolly calm, while all the world without, Unsatisfied and sick, tosses in noon. Emblem instructive of the virtuous man, Who keeps his temper'd mind serene, and pure, And every passion aptly harmoniz'd, Amid a jarring world with vice inflam'd.
Welcome, ye shades! ye bowery thickets, hail! Ye lofty pines! ye venerable oaks! Ye ashes wild, responding o'er the steep! Delicious is your shelter to the soul, As to the hunted hart the sallying spring, Or stream full-flowing, that his swelling sides Laves, as he floats along the herbag'd brink. Cool, through the nerves, your pleasing comfort glides; The heart beats glad; the fresh-expanded eye And ear resume their watch; the sinews knit; And life shoots swift through all the lighten'd limbs.