Nature and Elements

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.

The watchdog’s voice that bay’d the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind. 6

The man recover’d of the bite, The dog it was that died.

The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.

And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffrey, For he is the servant of the Living God, duly and daily serving him.

Let James rejoice with the Skuttle-Fish who foils his foe by the effusion of his ink.

Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature’s Darling 1 laid.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r The moping owl does to the moon complain.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r The moping owl does to the moon complain.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

A fav’rite has no friend!

What female heart can gold despise? What cat’s averse to fish?

Here Skugg lies snug As a bug in a rug.

I am his Highness’ 8 dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature’s God.

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul.

Die of a rose in aromatic pain?

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor’d mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul proud Science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has giv’n, Behind the cloud-topp’d hill, an humbler heav’n.