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James Thomson - Noontide Retreat of Summer As a Haunt for Meditation
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Shook sudden from the bosom of the sky,
A thousand shapes, or glide athwart the dusk,
Or stalk majestic on. Deep-roused, I feel
A sacred terror, a severe delight,
Creep through my mortal frame; and thus, methinks,
A voice, than human more, th` abstracted ear
Of fancy strikes: - "Be not of us afraid,
Poor kindred man! thy fellow-creatures, we
From the same Parent-power our beings drew,
The same our Lord, and laws, and great pursuit.
Once, some of us, like thee, through stormy life
Toil`d, tempest-beaten, ere we could attain
This holy calm, this harmony of mind,
Where purity and peace immingle charms.
Then fear not us; but with responsive song,
Amid these dim recesses, undisturb`d
By noisy folly and discordant vice,
Of nature sing with us, and nature`s God.
Here frequent, at the visionary hour,
When musing midnight reigns, or silent noon,
Angelic harps are in full concert heard,
And voices chanting from the wood-crown`d hill,
The deepening dale, or inmost sylvan glade:
A privilege bestow`d by us alone,
On contemplation, or the hallow`d ear
Of poet, swelling to seraphic strain."
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