Which all the happy gods so love,
That for you oft they quit their bright and great Metropolís above.
Here Nature does a house for me erect, Nature! the fairest architect,
Who those fond artists does despise That can the fair and living trees neglect,
Yet the dead timber prize.
Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, Hear the soft winds above me flying, With all their wanton boughs dispute, And the more tuneful birds to both replying, Nor be myself too mute.
A silver stream shall roll his waters near, Gilt with the sunbeams here and there, On whose enamell'd bank I'll walk, And see how prettily they smile, And hear how prettily they talk.
Ah! wretched, and too solitary he, Who loves not his own company! He'll feel the weight of it for many a day, Unless he call in sin or vanity,
To help to bear it away.
Oh, Solitude! first state of human kind! Which bless'd remain'd till man did find Ev'n his own helper's company:
As soon as two, alas! together join'd, The serpent made up three.
Though God himself, through countless ages, thee
His sole companion chose to be,
Thee, sacred Solitude! alone,
Before the branchy head of number's tree
Sprang from the trunk of one;
Thou (though men think thine an unactive part) Dost break and tame th' unruly heart, Which else would know no settled pace,
Making it move, well managed by thy art, With swiftness and with grace.
Thou the faint beams of reason's scatter'd light Dost like a burning glass unite,
Dost multiply the feeble heat,
And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright And noble fires beget.
Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks, I see That monster, London, laugh at me;
I should at thee, too, foolish city! If it were fit to laugh at misery; But thy estate I pity.
Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, And all the fools that crowd thee so, Ev'n thou, who dost thy millions boast, A village less than Islington wilt grow, A solitude almost.
SEE'ST thou not in clearest days, Oft thick fogs cloud heav'n's rays; And the vapours that do breathe From the earth's gross womb beneath, Seem they not with their black streams To pollute the sun's bright beams; And yet vanish into air,
Leaving it unblemish'd, fair?
So, my Willy, shall it be
With Detraction's breath on thee.
It shall never rise so high As to stain thy poesy.
As that sun doth oft exhale Vapours from each rotten vale,
Poesy so sometimes drains
Gross conceits from muddy brains, Mists of envy, fogs of spite,
"Twixt men's judgments and her light, But so much her power may do, That she can dissolve them too. If thy verse do bravely tower, As she makes wing, she gets power; Yet the higher she doth soar, She's affronted still the more, Till she to the high'st hath pass'd, Then she rests with fame at last. Let naught therefore thee affright, But make forward in thy flight. For, if I could match thy rhyme, To the very stars I'd climb; There begin again, and fly Till I reach'd eternity.
But, alas! my Muse is slow,
For thy place she flags too low;
Yea, the more's her hapless fate,
Her short wings were clipp'd of late; And poor I, her fortune ruing, Am myself put up a muing. But if I my cage can rid,
I'll fly where I never did.
And though for her sake I'm cross'd, Though my best hopes I have lost, And knew she would make my trouble Ten times more than ten times double; I should love and keep her too, Spite of all the world could do. For, though banish'd from my flocks, And confined within these rocks, Here I waste away the light,
And consume the sullen night.
She doth for my comfort stay, And keeps many cares away. Though I miss the flowery fields,
With those sweets the spring-tide yields; "Though I may not see those groves, Where the shepherds chant their loves, And the lasses more excel
Than the sweet-voiced Philomel; Though of all those pleasures past Nothing now remains at last
But remembrance (poor relief)
That more makes than mends my grief; She's my mind's companion still, Maugre envy's evil will;
Whence she should be driven too, Were't in mortals' power to do. She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow; Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace; And the blackest discontents Be her fairest ornaments. In my former days of bliss. Her divine skill taught me this, That from everything I saw I could some invention draw, And raise pleasure to her height Through the meanest object's sight. By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustling, By a daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Titan goes to bed, Or a shady bush or tree, She could more infuse in me Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow VOL. I.-H
Some things that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness.
The dull loneness, the black shade, That these hanging vaults have made; The strange music of the waves, Beating on these hollow caves; This black den which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss; The rude portals, which give light More to terror than delight; This my chamber of Neglect, Wall'd about with Disrespect : From all these and this dull air, A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight. Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this; Poesy, thou sweet'st content That e'er heaven to mortals lent, Though they as a trifle leave thee, Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee;
Though thou be to them a scorn, Who to naught but earth are born; Let my life no longer be
Than I am in love with thee.
Though our wise ones call it madness, Let me never taste of sadness,
If I love not thy madd'st fits Above all their greatest wits. And though some, too, seeming holy, Do account thy raptures folly, Thou dost teach me to contemn
What makes knaves and fools of them.
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