POEMS. 
Might fortify with all the martial trade 
Of rampart, bastion, fosse, and palisade ; 
Might plant the mortar with wide threatening bore, 
Or bid the mimic canon seem to roar. 
Now climb the steep, drop now your eye below, 
Where round the blooming village orchards grow ; 
There, like a picture, lies my lowly seat, 
A rural, shelter'd, unobserv'd retreat. 
Me far above the rest Selbornian scenes, 
The pendent forests, and the mountain-greens 
Strike with delight ; there spreads the distant view, 
That gradual fades till sunk in misty blue : 
Here nature hangs her slopy woods to sight, 
Rills purl between and dart a quivering light. 
SELBORNE HANGER. 
A WINTER PIECE. 
TO THE MISS BATTIES. 
The Bard, who sang so late in blithest strain 
Selbornian prospects, and the rural reign, 
Now suits his plaintive pipe to saddened tone, 
While the blank swains the changeful year bemoan. 
How fall'n the glories of these fading scenes ! 
The dusky beech resigns his vernal greens ; 
The yellow maple mourns in sickly hue. 
And russet woodlands crowd the darkening view. 
Dim, clust'ring fogs involve the country round, 
The valley, and the blended mountain-ground 
Sink in confusion ; but with tempest-wing 
Should Boreas from his northern barrier spring, 
The rushing woods vrith deaf'ning clamour roar, 
Like the sea tumbling on the pebbly shore. 
When spouting rains descend in torrent tides. 
See the torn zigzag weeps its channel' d sides : 
Winter exerts its rage ; heavy, and slow, 
From the keen east rolls on the treasured snow ; 
Sunk with its weight the bending boughs are seen. 
And one bright deluge whelms the works of men. 
Amidst this savage landscape, bleak and bare, 
