The Vale of Cluyd, VI–XL

Bright Phœbus sunk, dim twilight now succeeds, Still gleaming dubious with uncertain ray, While tremblingly among the vocal reeds The ev’ning breezes still more faintly play.

Amid this beauteous, soft, and flow’ry scene, On a high bank, all listless, I reclin’d; Whose shelving sides were crown’d with lively green, By tufted trees and bord’ring flow’rs confin’d.

Here, while the landscape faded on my sight, Wild Fancy’s eye still brighter scenes supply’d; I view’d not the last track of parting light, Nor mark’d the fanning breezes as they dy’d.

At length, Imagination, roving maid, Though gentle sleep had fetter’d all my pow’rs In golden chains, my busy soul convey’d To other landscapes and immortal bow’rs.

Methought I stood amidst a garden fair, Whose bounds no sight of mortal eye could trace, Situate mid-way, betwixt earth, seas, and air, Unmark’d by Time, uncircumscrib’d by Space.

Not half so sweet was that delightsome dale, Which to my waking view appear’d so bright; For here did never-ceasing suns prevail, With mildest sweetness temp’ring heav’nly light.

Spring breath’d eternal glories o’er the land: And gentlest winds, o’er fragrant lawns that blow, Nurs’d beauteous buds unset by mortal hand, And op’ning flow’rs that without planting grow.

Serene the heav’ns, save where a cloudy shrine, Big with cœlestial plenty, sail’d on high, Show’r’d Spring’s own roses from her seat divine, And drew a purple radiance o’er the sky.

Meanwhile, soft music echoing from each grove, Tun’d to enchanting notes most soft and clear, That breath’d the soul of harmony and love, Thrill’d the rapt breast, and charm’d the list’ning ear.

And still the while, with voices loud and sweet, The warbling birds in dulcet concert join’d, The waters murm’ring flow with cadence meet, “Low answer’d by the gently whisp’ring wind.”

These themes of wonder silent I survey’d, Attentive hanging on each dying sound; Pleas’d with the glories which I saw display’d, And scenes of joy and pleasure op’ning round.

Yet still methought a certain want appear’d, Of some to own this spot, so heav’nly fair, Else were each charming flow’ret vainly rear’d, “To bloom unnotic’d to the desart air:”

Else, were in vain these soft melodious strains, Which the whole soul of harmony inspir’d, Pour’d to the wild woods and the lonely plains, Though worthiest still by all to be admir’d.

Such were creation’s first imperfect hours, When the gay heav’ns in early beauty shone, And earth, bedeck’d with beasts, birds, plants, and flow’rs, Spread all her bosom to the genial sun;

Unfinish’d still the mighty work appear’d, Till Man, the lord of all, was bid to rise; With open brow his face divine who rear’d, And sought with upright look his native skies.

Thus as I paus’d, still louder swell’d the notes, From ev’ry bush, and brake, and echoing hill; While choirs cœlestial seem’d to tune their throats, And, with glad voice the chearful chorus fill.

Then, by some magic pow’r swift snatch’d away, Ev’n to the midst of that delightful land, I view’d at once all clad in bright array, A thousand Genii of the gardens stand.

But far above all these a seat was plac’d, Dress’d with each flow’r that ev’ry season knows, Whose vary’d tints, in gem-like order, grac’d The rural theatre which gradual rose.

For lo! the Genius of each blooming flow’r Brought his own fav’rite with peculiar care, To deck the arch of this inchanted bow’r, And, bowing at the throne, he plac’d it there.

A sight more beauteous ne’er did eye behold, Than these bright tribes that glitter’d on the day; And, rich in purple dyes and flaming gold, Did their bright bosoms to the sun display.

Such was the throne;—but oh! what pen can trace The heav’nly beauties of the matchless Two, Who, glowing with each bright cœlestial grace, Sat there aloft, conspicuous to the view!

The first, a youth of sweet and gentle mien, With many a wreath and knotted garland crown’d; Whose beauteous visage glow’d with charms serene, And on whose shoulders purple wings were bound:

These when he spreads, reviving Nature pours Her copious treasures of immortal bloom; Whilst through vast realms he scatters vernal stores, And from his downy pinions shakes perfume.

His name was ZEPHYRUS; and next him sat The beauteous goddess of the blooming year, The constant partner of his rural state, To heav’n and earth, to gods and mortals dear;

FLORA, bright pow’r, who sheds a thousand sweets O’er thousand lands, what time her gifts appear, What time her consort with his kisses greets Her coral lips, and wakes the rising year.

Her beauteous face was deck’d with youthful pride, Her graceful form in flamy robes was dress’d; And ev’ry charm wild Nature could provide, Adorn’d her head, and beam’d upon her breast.

Beside the throne, rang’d in fair order, stood The various Seasons of the rolling year; By all their train of months, weeks, days, pursu’d: And all their various symbols flourish’d here.

First came the SPRING, led by the rosy Hours, With all the Loves and Graces in her train; Deck’d with her wreath of never-fading flow’rs, Diffusing odours o’er the smiling plain.

Next SUMMER came; his cheeks with ardour fir’d, With his own blushing fruits and harvests crown’d; Before whose face the infant Spring retir’d, And with her roses strew’d the russet ground.

Stain’d with the grape’s press’d juice, with steadier pace, Still looking backward on preceding time, Ripe AUTUMN next succeeded in his place; Scatt’ring rich fruits, the growth of ev’ry clime.

Last WINTER comes, with heavy step and flow, A hoary captive bound in icy chains; With haggard eyes, and mantle dipp’d in snow, Who still of cold in Spring’s own realms complains.

Not one of these, but from their various store Some off’ring meet to lovely Flora pay; Not one of these, but with that off’ring more, And her soft reign most willingly obey.

Ev’n WINTER’S self, with look averted, throws, His thin-strewn flow’rets on the goddess’ shrine; Ev’n his cold bosom for a moment glows, When he beholds her radiant form divine.

But now the Genii of each plant and flow’r, Rang’d in fair order, wait her high commands; And each, approaching her delicious bow’r, In expectation of her verdict stands.

For many of the garden’s painted race, And some that with their colours deck the field, Rivals in wealth, in beauty, and in grace, Had wag’d high wars, unknowing how to yield.