Resounds the living surface of the ground. Nor undelightful is the ceaseless hum, To him who muses through the woods at noon; Or drowsy shepherd, as he lies reclin'd, With half shut eyes, beneath the floating shade Of willows gray, close-crowding o'er the brook. [Illustration: Reclined beneath the shade] Gradual, from these what numerous kinds descend, Evading even the microscopic eye! Full nature swarms with life; one wondrous mass Of animals, or atoms organiz'd, Waiting the vital breath, when Parent-Heaven Shall bid his spirit blow. The hoary fen, In putrid streams, emits the living cloud Of pestilence. Through the subterranean cells. Where searching sunbeams scarce can find a way, Earth animated heaves. The flowery leaf Wants not its soft inhabitants. Secure, Within its winding citadel, the stone Holds multitudes. But chief the forest boughs, That dance unnumber'd to the playful breeze, The downy orchard, and the melting pulp Of mellow fruit, the nameless nations feed Of evanescent insects. Where the pool Stands mantled o'er with green, invisible Amid the floating verdure millions stray. Each liquid, too, whether it pierces, soothes, Inflames, refreshes, or exalts the taste, With various forms abounds. Nor is the stream Of purest crystal, nor the lucid air, Though one transparent vacancy it seems, Void of their unseen people. These, conceal'd By the kind art of forming Heaven, escape The grosser eye of man: for, if the worlds In worlds inclos'd should on his senses burst, From cates ambrosial, and the nectar'd bowl, He would abhorrent turn; and in dead night. When silence sleeps o'er all, be stunn'd with noise. Let no presuming impious railer tax Creative Wisdom, as if aught was form'd In vain, or not for admirable ends. Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce His works unwise, of which the smallest part Exceeds the narrow vision of her mind? As if upon a full-proportion'd dome, On swelling columns heav'd, the pride of art! A critic fly, whose feeble ray scarce spreads An inch around, with blind presumption bold, Should dare to tax the structure of the whole. And lives the man whose universal eye Has swept at once the unbounded scheme of things, Mark'd their dependence so, and firm accord, As with unfaltering accent to conclude That _this_ availeth naught? Has any seen The mighty chain of beings, lessening down From Infinite Perfection to the brink Of dreary nothing, desolate abyss! From which astonish'd thought, recoiling, turns? Till then, alone let zealous praise ascend, And hymns of holy wonder, to that Power, Whose wisdom shines as lovely on our minds, As on our smiling eyes his servant-sun.