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Within my limits, lone and still, The blackbird pipes in artless trill; Fast by my couch, congenial guest, The wren has wove her mossy nest; From busy scenes and brighter skies, To lurk with innocence, she flies, Here hopes in safe repose to dwell, Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.
At morn I take my customed round, To mark how buds yon shrubby mound, And every opening primrose count, That trimly paints my blooming mount; Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude, That grace my gloomy solitude, I teach in winding wreaths to stray Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.
At eve, within yon studious nook, I ope my bra.s.s-embossed book, Portrayed with many a holy deed Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed; Then, as my taper waxes dim, Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn, And at the close, the gleams behold Of parting wings, be-dropt with gold.
While such pure joys my bliss create, Who but would smile at guilty state?
Who but would wish his holy lot In calm oblivion's humble grot?
Who but would cast his pomp away, To take my staff, and amice gray; And to the world's tumultuous stage Prefer the blameless hermitage?
Thomas Warton [1728-1790]
THE RETIREMENT
Farewell, thou busy world, and may We never meet again; Here I can eat and sleep and pray, And do more good in one short day Than he who his whole age outwears Upon the most conspicuous theaters, Where naught but vanity and vice appears.
Good G.o.d! how sweet are all things here!
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 fas.h.i.+on Is all our business, all our recreation!
O, how happy here's our leisure!
O, how innocent our pleasure!
O ye valleys! O ye 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, That man acquainted with himself dost make, And all his Maker's wonders to attend, 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 Is it, alone, To read and meditate and write, By none offended, and offending none!
To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease; 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 learned industriously to try!
Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show, The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po; The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, Are puddle-water, all, compared with thine; And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are With thine, much purer, to compare; The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine 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 n.o.ble heights above; O my beloved caves! from dog-star's heat, And all anxieties, my safe retreat; What safety, privacy, what true delight, In the artificial light 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 intrusted 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 undisturbed 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 [1630-1687]
THE COUNTRY FAITH
Here in the country's heart, Where the gra.s.s is green, Life is the same sweet life As it e'er hath been.
Trust in a G.o.d still lives, And the bell at morn Floats with a thought of G.o.d O'er the rising corn.
G.o.d comes down in the rain, And the crop grows tall-- This is the country faith And best of all!
Norman Gale [1862-
TRULY GREAT
My walls outside must have some flowers, My walls within must have some books; A house that's small; a garden large, And in it leafy nooks:
A little gold that's sure each week; That comes not from my living kind, But from a dead man in his grave, Who cannot change his mind:
A lovely wife, and gentle too; Contented that no eyes but mine Can see her many charms, nor voice To call her beauty fine:
Where she would in that stone cage live, A self made prisoner, with me; While many a wild bird sang around, On gate, on bush, on tree.
And she sometimes to answer them, In her far sweeter voice than all; Till birds, that loved to look on leaves, Will doat on a stone wall.
With this small house, this garden large, This little gold, this lovely mate, With health in body, peace at heart-- Show me a man more great.
William H. Davies [1870-
EARLY MORNING AT BARGIS
Clear air and gra.s.sy lea, Stream-song and cattle-bell-- Dear man, what fools are we In prison-walls to dwell!
To live our days apart From green things and wide skies, And let the wistful heart Be cut and crushed with lies!
Bright peaks!--And suddenly Light floods the placid dell, The gra.s.s-tops brush my knee: A good crop it will be, So all is well!
O man, what fools are we In prison-walls to dwell!
Hermann Hagedorn [1882-
