Good God! how sweet are all things here! The rapid Garonne and the winding How beautiful the fields appear!
How cleanly do we feed and lie! Lord! what good hours do we keep! How quietly we sleep!
What peace, what unanimity! How innocent from the lewd fashion Is all our business, all our recreation!
Oh, how happy here's our leisure!
Oh, how innocent our pleasure!
O ye valleys! Oye mountains!
O ye groves, and crystal fountains!
How I love at liberty
By turns to come and visit ye!
Dear solitude, the soul's best friend,
Are both too mean,
Beloved Dove, with thee
To vie priority;
Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit,
And lay their trophies at thy silver feet.
O my beloved rocks that rise
To awe the earth and brave the skies, From some aspiring mountain's crown How dearly do I love,
Giddy with pleasure, to look down, And, from the vales, to view the noble heights above!
That man acquainted with himself dost O my beloved caves! from dog-star's
And all his Maker's wonders to intend,
With thee I here converse at will And would be glad to do so still, For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul awake.
How calm and quiet a delight
To read, and meditate, and write,
By none offended, and offending none! To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own
And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease.
O my beloved nymph, fair Dove,
Princess of rivers, how I love
Upon thy flowery banks to lie,
And view thy silver stream,
When gilded by a Summer's beam!
And in it all thy wanton fry
Playing at liberty,
And with my angle upon them
The all of treachery
I ever learn'd industriously to try!
Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot
The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po;
The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine,
Are puddle-water, all, compared with
And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted
With thine, much purer, to compare;
And all anxieties, my safe retreat; What safety, privacy, what true delight, In the artificial night
Your gloomy entrails make,
Have I taken, do I take !
How oft, when grief has made me fly,
To hide me from society
E'en of my dearest friends, have I,
In your recesses' friendly shade,
All my sorrows open laid,
And my most secret woes entrusted to your
privacy!
Lord! would men let me alone,
What an over-happy one
Should I think myself to be,
Might I in this desert place
(Which most men in discourse disgrace)
Live but undisturb'd and free!
Here, in this despised recess,
Would I, maugre Winter's cold, And the Summer's worst excess,
Try to live out to sixty full years old; And, all the while,
Without an envious eye
On any thriving under Fortune's smile, Contented live, and then contented die. CHARLES COTTON.
THE PRAISE OF A COUNTRYMAN'S
LIFE.
Oн, the sweet contentment
The countryman doth find,
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, Mistaken long, I sought you then
'Tis warmth and not gay clothing
That doth prolong our lives:
Then care away, and wend along with me.
The ploughman, though he labor hard,
Yet on the holy day,
In busy companies of men :
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow :
Society is all but rude
To this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green.
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
No emperor so merrily
Does pass his time away:
Then care away, and wend along with me.
To recompense our tillage The heavens afford us showers, High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;
And for our sweet refreshments
The earth affords us bowers;
Then care away, and wend along with me.
The cuckoo and the nightingale
Full merrily do sing,
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;
And with their pleasant roundelays
Bid welcome to the spring:
Cut in these trees their mistress' name:
Little, alas, they know or heed
How far these beauties her exceed!
Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passion's heat
Love hither makes his best retreat:
The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race:
Apollo hunted Daphne so
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine
Then care away, and wend along with me. Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
Withdraws into its happiness-
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain's sliding foot
Or at some fruit tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and claps its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy Garden state
While man there walk'd without a mate :
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet?
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises are in one,
To live in Paradise alone.
How well the skilful gardener drew
Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
And, as it works, th' industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome
hours
Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!
THE BRAES o' BALQUHITHER.
LET us go, lassie, go,
To the Braes o' Balquhither, Where the blae-berries grow
'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the rae, Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquhither.
I will twine thee a bower
By the clear siller fountain, And I'll cover it o'er
Wi' the flowers o' the mountain; I will range through the wilds, And the deep glens sae drearie, And return wi' their spoils
To the bower o' my dearie.
When the rude wintry win'
Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn
On the night-breeze is swelling, So merrily we'll sing,
As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear shieling ring
Wi' the light lilting chorus. Now the simmer's in prime
Wi' the flowers richly blooming, And the wild mountain-thyme A' the moorlands perfuming; To our dear native scenes
Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.
DEAR is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager.
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.
In orange-groves and myrtle bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race at eve.
The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danced in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent greenwood shade,— These simple joys that never fail Shall bind me to my native vale.
UP! quit thy bower; late wears the hour;
Which, like thee, to those in sorrow
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake
In its cradle on the brake.
The brightest hour of unborn Spring
Through the winter wandering,
Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn
To hoar February born;
It kiss'd the forehead of the Earth,
Bending from heaven, in azure mirth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free,
And waked to music all their fountains,
And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
And like a prophetess of May
Making the wintry world appear
Strew'd flowers upon the barren way,
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.
Away, away, from men and towns
To the wild wood and the downs—
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music, lest it should not find
An echo in another's mind,
While the touch of Nature's art
Harmonizes heart to heart.
Long have the rooks caw'd round thy I leave this notice on my door
On flower and tree loud hums the bee;
The wilding kid sports merrily:
A day so bright, so fresh, so clear,
Showeth when good fortune's near.
Up! lady fair, and braid thy hair,
And rouse thee in the breezy air;
The lulling stream that soothed thy dream
Is dancing in the sunny beam;
And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay,
Will waft good fortune on its way.
Up! time will tell: the friar's bell
Its service sound hath chimèd well;
The aged crone keeps house alone,
And reapers to the fields are gone;
The active day, so boon and bright,
May bring good fortune ere the night.
THE INVITATION.
BEST and brightest, come away! Fairer far than this fair Day,
For each accustom'd visitor:-
'I am gone into the fields
To take what this sweet hour yields.
Reflection, you may come to-morrow;
Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.
You with the unpaid bill, Despair,-
You tiresome verse-reciter, Care,-
I will pay you in the grave,—
Death will listen to your stave.
Expectation too, be off!
To-day is for itself enough.
Hope, in pity, mock not Woe
With smiles, nor follow where I go;
Long having lived on your sweet food,
At length I find one moment's good
After long pain: with all your love,
This you never told me of."
Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains,
And the pools where winter rains
Image all their roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Of sapless green, and ivy dun,
Round stems that never kiss the sun,
Where the lawns and pastures be
And the sand-hills of the sea,
Where the melting hoar-frost wets
The daisy-star that never sets,
And wind-flowers and violets
Which yet join not scent to hue
Crown the pale year weak and new;
When the night is left behind
In the deep east, dun and blind,
And the blue noon is over us,
And the multitudinous
Billows murmur at our feet,
Where the earth and ocean meet,
And all things seem only one
In the universal Sun.
EVER let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home:
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ;
Then let wingèd Fancy wander
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May
From dewy sward or thorny spray ;
All the heaped Autumn's wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth;
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it;-thou shalt
Distant harvest-carols clear;
Rustle of the reapèd corn;
Sweet birds antheming the morn;
And in the same moment-hark!
"Tis the early April lark,
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White-plumed lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf, and every flower
Pearled with the selfsame shower.
Through the thought still spread beyond Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Open wide the mind's cage-door, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming:
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting. What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sere fagot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky.
-Sit thee there, and send abroad
With a mind self-overawed
Fancy, high-commission'd:-send her!
She has vassals to attend her;
Meagre from its cellèd sleep;
And the snake all winter-thin
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;
Then the hurry and alarm
When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
Acorns ripe down-pattering
While the autumn breezes sing.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Everything is spoilt by use:
Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gazed at? Where's the maid
Whose lip mature is ever new?
Where's the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? Where's the face
One would meet in every place?
Where's the voice, however soft,
One would hear so very oft?
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
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