tion
which animates the earth after its temporary suspension during the Winter.
By the same rule, is assigned to Summer the _placid lake_, &c. not because
that image is never seen, or enjoyed, at any other season; but on account
of its affecting us more in Summer, than either in the Spring, or in
Autumn; the indolence and languor generally then experienced disposing us
to dwell with particular delight on such an object of repose, not to
mention the grateful idea of coolness derived from a knowledge of its
temperature. Thus also the _evening cloud_, exhibiting a fleeting
representation of successive objects, is, perhaps, justly appropriated to
Autumn, as in that Season the general decay of inanimate nature leads the
mind to turn upon itself, and without effort to apply almost every image
of sense or vision of the imagination,* to its own transitory state.

If the above be admitted, it is needless to add more; if it be not, it
would be useless.

The Sylphs of the Seasons.

Long has it been my fate to hear
The slave of Mammon, with a sneer,
My indolence reprove.
Ah, little knows he of the care,
The toil, the hardship that I bear,
While lolling in my elbow-chair,
And seeming scarce to move:

For, mounted on the Poet's steed,
I _there_ my ceaseless journey speed
O'er mountain, wood, and stream:
And oft within a little day
'Mid comets fierce 'tis mine to stray,
And wander o'er the Milky-way
To catch a Poet's dream.

But would the Man of Lucre know
What riches from my labours flow?--
A DREAM is my reply.
And who for wealth has ever pin'd,
That had a World within his mind,
Where every treasure he may find,
And joys that never die!

One night, my task diurnal done,
(For I had travell'd with the Sun
O'er burning sands, o'er snows)
Fatigued, I sought the couch of rest;
My wonted pray'r to Heaven address'd;
But scarce had I my pillow press'd
When thus a vision rose.

Methought within a desert cave,
Cold, dark, and solemn as the grave,
I suddenly awoke.
It seem'd of sable Night the cell,
Where, save when from the ceiling fell
An oozing drop, her silent spell
No sound had ever broke.

There motionless I stood alone,
Like some strange monument of stone
Upon a barren wild;
Or like, (so solid and profound
The darkness seem'd that wall'd me round)
A man that's buried under ground,
Where pyramids are pil'd.

Thus fix'd, a dreadful hour I past,
And now I heard, as from a blast,