Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/124

While Philomel is ours; while in our shades,
Thro' the soft silence of the listening night,745
The sober-suited songstress trills her lay.

But come, my Muse, the desart-barrier burst,
A wild expanse of lifeless sand and sky:
And, swifter than the toiling caravan,
Shoot o'er the vale of Sennar; ardent climb 745
The Nubian mountains, and the secrets bounds
Of jealous Abyssinia boldly pierce.
Thou art no ruffian, who beneath the mask
Of social commerce com'st to rob their wealth;
No holy Fury thou, blaspheming Heaven, 750
With consecrated steel to stab their peace,
And thro' the land, yet red from civil wounds,
To spread the purple tyranny of Rome.
Thou, like the harmless bee, may'st freely range,
From mead to mead bright with exalted flowers. 755
From jasmine grove to grove, may'st wander gay,
Thro' palmy shades and aromatic woods,
That grace the plains, invest the peopled hills,
And up the more than Alpine mountains wave.
There on the breezy summit, spreading fair, 760
For many a league; or on stupendous rocks,
That, from the sun-redoubling valley lift,
Cool to the middle air, their lawny tops;
Where palaces, and fanes, and villas rise;
And gardens smile around, and cultur'd fields; 765
And fountains gush; and careless herds and flocks
Securely stray; a world within itfelf,
Disdaining all assault: there let me draw
Etherial soul, there drink reviving gales,
Profusely breathing from the spicy groves, 770
And vales of fragrance; there at distance hear
The roaring floods, and cataracts, that sweep

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