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Over the broad hill creeps a beam, Like hope that gilds a good man's brow; And now ascends the nostril-steam Of stalwart horses come to plow.
Ye rigid plowmen, bear in mind Your labor is for future hours!
Advance--spare not--nor look behind-- Plow deep and straight with all your powers.
Richard Hengist Horne [1803-1884]
THE USEFUL PLOW
A country life is sweet!
In moderate cold and heat, To walk in the air how pleasant and fair!
In every field of wheat, The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers, And every meadow's brow; So that I say, no courtier may Compare with them who clothe in gray, And follow the useful plow.
They rise with the morning lark, And labor till almost dark, Then, folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep While every pleasant park Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing On each green, tender bough.
With what content and merriment Their days are spent, whose minds are bent To follow the, useful plow.
Unknown
"TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT"
To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,--to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy gra.s.s, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,--and eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by, E'en like the pa.s.sage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.
John Keats [1795-1821]
THE QUIET LIFE
What pleasure have great princes More dainty to their choice Than herdsmen wild, who careless In quiet life rejoice, And fortune's fate not fearing Sing sweet in summer morning?
Their dealings plain and rightful, Are void of all deceit; They never know how spiteful It is to kneel and wait On favorite, presumptuous, Whose pride is vain and sumptuous.
All day their flocks each tendeth; At night, they take their rest; More quiet than who sendeth His s.h.i.+p unto the East, Where gold and pearl are plenty; But getting, very dainty.
For lawyers and their pleading, They 'steem it not a straw; They think that honest meaning Is of itself a law: Whence conscience judgeth plainly, They spend no money vainly.
O happy who thus liveth!
Not caring much for gold; With clothing which sufficeth To keep him from the cold.
Though poor and plain his diet Yet merry it is, and quiet.
William Byrd [1538?-1623]
THE WISH
Well then, I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree; The very honey of all earthly joy Does, of all meats, the soonest cloy; And they, methinks, deserve my pity Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings Of this great hive, the city!
Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave, May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too!
And since Love ne'er will from me flee,-- A mistress moderately fair, And good as guardian-angels are, Only beloved, and loving me!
O fountains! when in you shall I Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy?
O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade?
Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood!
Here's wealthy Nature's treasury, Where all the riches lie, that she Has coined and stamped for good.
Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetched metaphors appear; Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And naught but echo flatter.
The G.o.ds, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way; And therefore we may boldly say That 'tis the way too thither.
How happy here should I And one dear She live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude In deserts solitude.
I should have then this only fear: Lest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me, And so make a city here.
Abraham Cowley [1618-1667]
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY
"Why, William, on that old gray stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away?
"Where are your books?--that light bequeathed To beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you; As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake And thus I made reply:
"The eye--it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will.
"Nor less I dream that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise pa.s.siveness.
"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things forever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking?
"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old gray stone, And dream my time away."
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
