Alas! not favor'd less, be still as now Discreet, the time may come you need not fly." [Illustration: The soft hour of walking] The sun has lost his rage; his downward orb Shoots nothing now but animating warmth, And vital lustre; that, with various ray, Lights up the clouds, those beauteous robes of heaven Incessant roll'd into romantic shapes, The dream of waking fancy! Broad below Cover'd with ripening fruits, and swelling fast Into the perfect year, the pregnant earth And all her tribes rejoice. Now the soft hour Of walking comes: for him who lonely loves To seek the distant hills, and there converse With Nature; there to harmonize his heart, And in pathetic song to breathe around The harmony to others. Social friends, Attun'd to happy unison of soul-- To whose exalting eye a fairer world, Of which the vulgar never had a glimpse, Displays its charms--whose minds are richly fraught With philosophic stores, superior light-- And in whose breast, enthusiastic, burns Virtue the sons of interest deem romance, Now call'd abroad enjoy the falling day: Now to the verdant _portico_ of woods, To Nature's vast _lyceum_, forth they walk; By that kind _school_ where no proud master reigns, The full free converse of the friendly heart, Improving and improv'd. Now from the world, Sacred to sweet retirement, lovers steal, And pour their souls in transport, which the Sire Of love approving hears, and _calls it good_. Which way, Amanda, shall we bend our course? The choice perplexes. Wherefore should we choose? All is the same with thee. Say shall we wind Along the streams? or walk the smiling mead; Or court the forest glades? or wander wild Among the waving harvests? or ascend, While radiant Summer opens all its pride, Thy hill, delightful Sheen? Here let us sweep The boundless landscape; now the raptur'd eye Exulting swift, to huge Augusta send, Now to the sister-hills that skirt her plain To lofty Harrow now, and now to where Majestic Windsor lifts his princely brow. In lovely contrast to this glorious view, Calmly magnificent, then will we turn To where the silver Thames first rural grows. There let the feasted eye unwearied stray; Luxurious, there, rove through the pendent woods That nodding hang o'er Harrington's retreat, And stooping thence to Ham's embowering walks, Beneath whose shades, in spotless peace retir'd, With her the pleasing partner of his heart, The worthy Queensbury yet laments his Gay, And polish'd Cornbury woos the willing muse, Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames-- Fair-winding up to where the muses haunt In Twit'nam's bowers, and for their Pope implore The healing god, to royal Hampton's pile, To Clermont's terrac'd height, and Esher's groves,