The linnet, chattering loud To the May morn, shall sing; thou, in thy shroud, Forgetful and forgotten, sink to rest; And grass-green be the sod upon thy breast! ON A LANDSCAPE BY RUBENS.
Nay, let us gaze, ev'n till the sense is full, Upon the rich creation, shadowed so That not great Nature, in her loftiest pomp Of living beauty, ever on the sight Rose more magnificent; nor aught so fair Hath Fancy, in her wildest, brightest mood, Imaged of things most lovely, when the sounds Of this cold cloudy world at distance sink, And all alone the warm idea lives Of what is great, or beautiful, or good, 10 In Nature's general plan.
So the vast scope, O Rubens! of thy mighty mind, and such The fervour of thy pencil, pouring wide The still illumination, that the mind Pauses, absorbed, and scarcely thinks what powers Of mortal art the sweet enchantment wrought.
She sees the painter, with no human touch, Create, embellish, animate at will, The mimic scenes, from Nature's ampler range 20 Caught as by inspiration; while the clouds, High wandering, and the fairest form of things, Seem at his bidding to emerge, and burn With radiance and with life! Let us, subdued, Now to the magic of the moment lose The thoughts of life, and mingle every sense Ev'n in the scenes before us! The fresh morn Of summer shines; the white clouds of the east 30 Are crisped; beneath, the bright blue champaign steams; The banks, the meadows, and the flowers, send up An incensed exhalation, like the meek And holy praise of Him whose soul's deep joy The lone woods witness.

Thou, whose heart is sick Of vanities; who, in the throng of men, Dost feel no lenient fellowship; whose eye Turns, with a languid carelessness, around Upon the toiling crowd, still murmuring on, Restless;--oh, think, in summer scenes like these, 40 How sweet the sense of quiet gladness is, That, like the silent breath of morning, steals From lowly nooks, and feels itself expand Amid the works of Nature, to the Power That made them: to the awful thought of HIM Who, when the morning stars shouted for joy, Bade the great sun from tenfold darkness burst, The green earth roll in light, and solitude First hear the voice of man, whilst hills and woods Stood eminent, in orient hues arrayed, 50 His dwelling; and all living Nature smiled, As in this pictured semblance, beaming full Before us! Mark again the various view: Some city's far-off spires and domes appear, Breaking the long horizon, where the morn Sits blue and soft: what glowing imagery Is spread beneath!--Towns, villages, light smoke, And scarce-seen windmill-sails, and devious woods, Chequering 'mid sunshine the grass-level land, 60 That stretches from the sight.
Now nearer trace The forms of trees distinct--the broad brown oak; The poplars, that, with silvery trunks, incline, Shading the lonely castle; flakes of light Are flung behind the massy groups, that, now Enlarging and enlarging still, unfold Their separate beauties.

But awhile delay; Pass the foot-bridge, and listen (for we hear, Or think we hear her), listen to the song 70 Of yonder milkmaid, as she brims her pail; Whilst, in the yellow pasture, pensive near, The red cows ruminate.
Break off, break off, for lo! where, all alarmed, The small birds,[89] from the late resounding perch, Fly various, hushed their early song; and mark, Beneath the darkness of the bramble-bank That overhangs the half-seen brook, where nod The flowing rushes, dew-besprent, with breast Ruddy, and emerald wing, the kingfisher 80 Steals through the dripping sedge away.

What shape Of terrors scares the woodland habitants, Marring the music of the dawn?
Look round; See, where he creeps, beneath the willowy stump, Cowering and low, step silent after step, The booted fowler: keen his look, and fixed Upon the adverse bank, while, with firm hand, He grasps the deadly tube; his dog, with ears Hung back, and still and steady eye of fire, Points to the prey; the boor, intent, moves on 90 Panting, and creeping close beneath the leaves, And fears lest ev'n the rustling reeds betray His footfall; nearer yet, and yet more near, He stalks.

Who now shall save the heedless group, The speckled partridges, that in the sun, On yonder hillock green, across the stream, Bask unalarmed beneath the hawthorn bush, Whose aged boughs the crawling blackberry Entwines! And thus, upon the sweetest scenes 100 Of human loveliness, and social peace Domestic, when the full fond heart reclines Upon its hopes, and almost mingles tears Of joy, to think that in this hollow world Such bliss should be its portion; then (alas, The bitter change!), then, with his unheard step, In darkness shrouded, yet approaching fast, Death, from amidst the sunny flowers, lifts up His giant dread anatomy, and smites, Smites the fair prospect once, whilst every bloom 110 Hangs shrivelled, and a sound of mourning fills The lone and blasted valley: but no sound Is here of sorrow or of death, though she, The country Kate, with shining morning cheek (Who, in the tumbril, with her market-gear, Sits seated high), seems to expect the flash Exploding, that shall lay the innocent And feathered tenants of the landscape low.
Not so the clown, who, heedless whether life Or death betide, across the plashy ford 120 Drives slow; the beasts plod on, foot following foot, Aged and grave, with half-erected ears, As now his whip above their matted manes Hangs tremulous, while the dark and shallow stream Flashes beneath their fetlock: he, astride On harness saddle, not a sidelong look Deigns at the breathing landscape, or the maid Smiling behind; the cold and lifeless calf Her sole companion: and so mated oft Is some sweet maid, whose thrilling heart was formed 130 For dearer fellowship.