There's not a hill in all the view, Save that a forked cloud or two Upon the verge of distance lies And into mountains cheats the eyes. And as to trees the willows wear Lopped heads as high as bushes are; Some taller things the distance shrouds That may be trees or stacks or clouds Or may be nothing; still they wear A semblance where there's nought to spare. Among the tawny tasselled reed The ducks and ducklings float and feed. With head oft dabbing in the flood They fish all day the weedy mud, And tumbler-like are bobbing there, Heels topsy turvy in the air. The geese in troops come droving up, Nibble the weeds, and take a sup; And, closely puzzled to agree, Chatter like gossips over tea. The gander with his scarlet nose When strife's at height will interpose; And, stretching neck to that and this, With now a mutter, now a hiss, A nibble at the feathers too, A sort of "pray be quiet do," And turning as the matter mends, He stills them into mutual friends; Then in a sort of triumph sings And throws the water oer his wings. Ah, could I see a spinney nigh, A puddock riding in the sky Above the oaks with easy sail On stilly wings and forked tail, Or meet a heath of furze in flower, I might enjoy a quiet hour, Sit down at rest, and walk at ease, And find a many things to please. But here my fancy's moods admire The naked levels till they tire, Nor een a molehill cushion meet To rest on when I want a seat. Here's little save the river scene And grounds of oats in rustling green And crowded growth of wheat and beans, That with the hope of plenty leans And cheers the farmer's gazing brow, Who lives and triumphs in the plough-- One sometimes meets a pleasant sward Of swarthy grass; and quickly marred The plough soon turns it into brown, And, when again one rambles down The path, small hillocks burning lie And smoke beneath a burning sky. Green paddocks have but little charms With gain the merchandise of farms; And, muse and marvel where we may, Gain mars the landscape every day-- The meadow grass turned up and copt, The trees to stumpy dotterels lopt, The hearth with fuel to supply For rest to smoke and chatter bye; Giving the joy of home delights, The warmest mirth on coldest nights. And so for gain, that joy's repay, Change cheats the landscape every day, Nor trees nor bush about it grows That from the hatchet can repose, And the horizon stooping smiles Oer treeless fens of many miles. Spring comes and goes and comes again And all is nakedness and fen. _Spear Thistle_ Where the broad sheepwalk bare and brown [Yields] scant grass pining after showers, And winds go fanning up and down The little strawy bents and nodding flowers, There the huge thistle, spurred with many thorns, The suncrackt upland's russet swells adorns.