MISCELLANEOUS. 97 



Invigorate my frame : 

 I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase, 

 With thee the distant clime will trace, 



Beyond those clouds of flame. 



Above, below, what charms unfold 



In all the varied view ! 

 Before me all is burnish'd gold, 



Behind the twilight's hue. 

 The mists which on old Night await, 

 Far to the West they hold their state, 



They shun the clear blue face of jlom ; 



Along the fine cerulean sky. 



The fleecy clouds successive fly, 

 While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn. 



And hark ! the Thatcher has begun 



His whistle on the eaves. 

 And oft the Hedger's bill is heard 



Among the rustling leaves. 

 The slow team creaks upon the road, 



The noisy whip resounds, 

 The driver's voice, his carol blithe. 

 The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe, 



Mix with the morning's sounds. 



Who would not rather take his seat 



Beneath these clumps of trees, 

 The early dawn of day to greet. 



And catch the healthy breeze, 

 Than on the silken couch of Sloth 



Luxurious to lie ; 

 Who would not from life's dreary waste 

 Snatch, when he could, with eager haste. 



An interval of joy ! 



To him who simply thus recounts 



The morning's pleasures o'er, 

 Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close 



To ope on him no more. 



