From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. "Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, The swarming songsters of the careless grove, Ten thousand throats! that from the flowering thorn Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, Such grateful, kindly raptures them emove: They neither plough nor sow: ne fit for flail, E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they drove; Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, Whatever crowns the hill or smiles along the vale. "Outcast of nature, man! the wretched thrall Of bitter-dropping sweat, of sweltry pain, Of cares that eat away thy heart with gall, And of the vices, an inhuman train, That all proceed from savage thirst of gain: For when hard-hearted Interest first began To poison earth, Astræ left the plain; Guile, violence, and murder seized on man, [ran. And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers "Come ye who still the cumbrous load of life Push hard up hill; but as the farthest steep You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep, And hurls your labours to the valley deep, For ever vain: come, and, withouten fee, I in oblivion will your sorrows steep, Your cares, your toils; will steep you in a sea Of full delight: oh come, ye weary wights, to me! "With me you need not rise at early dawn, To pass the joyless day in various stounds: Or, louting low, on upstart fortune fawn, And sell fair honour for some paltry pounds; Or through the city take your dirty rounds, To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visits pay, Now flattering base, now giving secret wounds, Or prowl in courts of law for human prey, In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad highway. "No cocks, with me, to rustic labour call, From village on to village sounding clear: To tardy swain no shrill-voiced matrons squall; No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your ear; No hammers thump; no horrid blacksmith fear; No noisy tradesmen your sweet slumbers start, With sounds that are a misery to hear: But all is calm, as would delight the heart Of Sybarite of old, all nature, and all årt. "Here naught but candour reigns, indulgent ease, Good-natured lounging, sauntering up and down: They who are pleased themselves must always please; On others' ways they never squint a frown, Is sooth'd and sweeten'd by the social sense; For interest, envy, pride, and strife are banish'd hence. "What, what is virtue, but repose of mind, A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm; Above the reach of wild ambition's wind, Above the passions that this world deform, And torture man, a proud, malignant worm? But here, instead, soft gales of passion play, And gently stir the heart, thereby to form A quicker sense of joy; as breezes stray Across th' enliven'd skies, and make them still more [gay. "The best of men have ever loved repose : They hate to mingle in the filthy fray; Where the soul sours, and gradual rancour grows, Imbitter'd more from peevish day to day. Ev'n those whom fame has lent her fairest ray, The most renown'd of worthy wights of yore, From a base world at last have stolen away: So Scipio, to the soft Cumaan shore Retiring, tasted joy he never knew before. "But if a little exercise you choose, Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here. "Oh grievous folly! to heap up estate, To toil for what you here untoiling may obtain." To stand imbodied to our senses plain), The while in ocean Phœbus dips his wain, Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show. Ye gods of quiet and of sleep profound! Whose soft dominion o'er the castle sways, And all the widely-silent places round, Forgive me if my trembling pen displays What never yet was sung in mortal lays. But how shall I attempt such arduous string, I who have spent my nights and nightly days In this soul-deadening place, loose loitering? Ah! how shall I for this uprear my molted wing? Come on, my Muse, nor stoop to low despair, Thou imp of Jove, touch'd by celestial fire! Thou yet shalt sing of war and action fair, Which the bold sons of Britain will inspire; Of ancient bards thou yet shalt sweep the lyre; Thou yet shalt tread in tragic pall the stage, Paint love's enchanting woes, the hero's ire, The sage's calm, the patriot's noble rage, [age. Dashing corruption down through every worthless The doors, that knew no shrill, alarming bell, No cursed knocker plied by villain's hand, Self-open'd into halls, where, who can tell What elegance and grandeur wide expand, The pride of Turkey and of Persia land? Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread, And couches stretch'd around in seemly band; And endless pillows rise to prop the head; [bed. So that each spacious room was one full-swelling And everywhere huge cover'd tables stood, With wines high flavour'd and rich viands crown'd; Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food On the green bosom of this earth are found, And all old Ocean genders in his round: You need but wish, and, instantly obey'd, [play'd. Or melt the time in love, or wake the lyre, Pour'd forth at large the sweetly-tortured heart; Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning hand, Depainted was the patriarchal age; What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land, And pastured on from verdant stage to stage, Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage. Toil was not then. Of nothing took they heed, But with wild beasts the sylvan war to wage, And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed: Bless'd sons of nature they! true golden age indeed! Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls, Bade the gay bloom of vernal landskips rise, |