Leaves no cold wintry corner unexplor'd; Like silent-working Heaven, surprising oft The lonely heart with unexpected good. For you the roving spirit of the wind Blows Spring abroad; for you the teeming clouds Descend in gladsome plenty o'er the world; And the sun sheds his kindest rays for you. Ye flower of human race! In these green days, Reviving sickness lifts her languid head; Life flows afresh; and young-ey'd health exalts The whole creation round. Contentment walks The sunny glade, and feels an inward bliss Spring o'er his mind, beyond the power of kings To purchase. Pure serenity apace Induces thought, and contemplation still. By swift degrees the love of Nature works, And warms the bosom; till at last, sublim'd To rapture and enthusiastic heat, We feel the present Deity, and taste The joy of God to see a happy world! These are the sacred feelings of thy heart, Thy heart inform'd by reason's purer ray, O Lyttelton, the friend! thy passions thus And meditations vary, as at large, Courting the muse, through Hagley Park you stray; Thy British Tempè! There along the dale, With woods o'erhung, and shagg'd with mossy rocks, Whence on each hand the gushing waters play. And down the rough cascade white-dashing fall, Or gleam in lengthen'd vista through the trees, You silent steal; or sit beneath the shade Of solemn oaks, that tuft the swelling mounts Thrown graceful round by Nature's careless hand, And pensive listen to the various voice Of rural peace: the herds, the flocks, the birds, The hollow-whispering breeze, the plaint of rills, That, purling down amid the twisted roots Which creep around, their dewy murmurs shake On the sooth'd ear. From these abstracted oft, You wander through the philosophic world; Where in bright train continual wonders rise, Or to the curious or the pious eye. And oft, conducted by historic truth, You tread the long extent of backward time: Planning, with warm benevolence of mind, And honest zeal unwarp'd by party rage, Britannia's weal; how from the venal gulf To raise her virtue, and her arts revive. Or, turning thence thy view, these graver thoughts The muses charm; while, with sure taste refin'd, You draw the inspiring breath of ancient song, Till nobly rises, emulous, thy own. Perhaps thy lov'd Lucinda shares thy walk, With soul to thine attun'd. Then Nature all Wears to the lover's eye a look of love; And all the tumult of a guilty world, Toss'd by ungenerous passions, sinks away. The tender heart is animated peace; And as it pours its copious treasures forth, In varied converse, softening every theme, You, frequent-pausing, turn, and from her eyes, Where meeken'd sense, and amiable grace, And lively sweetness dwell, enraptur'd drink