Leek to the Welsh, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of Irish swains potatoe is the cheer,
Oat for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind,
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind;
While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks, nor oat-meal, nor potatoe, prize.
[186]: Épître à miss Blount sur la vie de campagne.
Th' effusive South
Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of Heav'n,
Breathes the big clouds with vernal show'rs distent...
Thus all day long the full-distended clouds
Indulge their genial stores, and well-show'r'd Earth
Is deep enrich'd with vegetable life,
Till in the western sky the downward sun
Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush
Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam.
The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes
Th' illumin'd mountain, thro' the forest streams,
Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist
Far smoking o'er the interminable plain,
In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems.
Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around.
(Spring, 142-195.)
[188]: Voir les Fêtes de la Révolution, par David.
Silence and Darkness! Solemn sisters! Twins
Of ancient night! I to Day's soft-ey'd sister pay my court
(Endymion's rival), and her aid implore
Now first implor'd in succour to the Muse.
[190]: Robert Burns.