Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/117

These are the haunts of Meditation, these
The scenes where ancients bards th' inspiring breath,
Extatic, felt; and, from this world retir'd,
Conversed with angels, and immortal forms, 525
On gracious errands bent: to save the fall
Of virtue, struggling on the brink of vice;
In waking whispers, and repeated dreams,
To hint pure thought, and warn the favour'd soul
For future trials fated to prepare; 530
To prompt the poet, who devoted gives
His muse to better themes; to soothe the pangs
Of dying worth, and from the patriot's breast,
(Backward to mingle in detested war,
But foremost when engag'd) to turn the death; 535
And numberless such offices of love,
Daily, and nightly, zealous to perform.

Shook sudden from the bosom of the sky,
A thousand shapes or glide athwart the dusk,
Or stalk majestic on. Deep-rous'd, I feel 540
A sacred terror, and severe delight,
Creep through my mortal frame; and thus, methinks,
A voice, than human more, th' abstracted ear
Of fancy strikes. "Be not of us afraid,
Poor kindred Man! thy fellow-creatures, we 545
From the same Parent-Power our beings drew,
The same our Lord, and laws, and great pursuit.
Once some of us, like thee, thro' stormy life,
Toil'd, tempest-beaten, ere we could attain
This holy calm, this harmony of mind, 550
Where purity and peace immingle charms.
Then, fear not us; but with responsive song,
Amid these dim recesses, undisturb'd
By noisy folly and discordant vice,
Of Nature sing with us, and Nature's God. 555