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But relaxation of the languid frame,
The nurse fleeps sweetly, bir'd to watch the fick, Whom snoring she difturbs. “As sweetly he Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour To sleep within the carriage more secure, His legs depending at the open door. Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk, The tedious rector drawling o'er his head; And sweet the clerk below. But neither sleep Of lazy nurse, who snores the fick man dead, Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour To sumber in the carriage 'more secure, Nor sleep enjoy'd by curate in his desk, Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet, Compar'd with the repose the sofa yields.
Oh may I live exempted (while I live
Nor sofa then I needed. Youth repairs
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 born The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, Wbile admiration, feeding at the eye, And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd The diftant plough flow moving, and beside His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track, The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy! Here Ouse, flow winding through a level plain Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, Conducts the eye along his finuous course Delighted. There, faft rooted in their bank, Stand, never overlook'd, our fav’rite elms, That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; While far beyond, and overthwart the stream That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, The sloping land recedes into the clouds; Displaying on its varied fide 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 muft be beautiful, wbich, daily view'd, Please daily, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years. Praise juftly due to those that I describe.
Nor rural fights alone, but rural sounds, Exbilarate the spirit, and restore 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 blaft, And all their leaves fast flutt'ring, all at once. Nor less composure waits upon Of distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills that flip 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,