Save but the turtles, they alone
With tender plaintive faithful moan,
Shall tell to all the secret grove,
Their soft thick-warbled tale of love:
Sweet birds! your mingling bliss pursuing, Ever billing, ever cooing,
Ye! constant pair! I love to note
Your hoarse strain gurgling in your throat;
And ye, unheard from sidelong hills,
The liquid lapse of whispering rills,
I hist to hear: such sounds diffuse
Sweet transports to the thoughtful muse.
Thus summer sees me brisk and light,
Till winter spreads her 'kerchief white;
Then to the city's social walls
Where tolling clock to business calls.
There the weaver's shuttle speeds
Nimbly thro' the fine-spun threads;
There the vocal anvil rings,
While the smith his hammer swings;
And every man and every boy,
Briskly join in warm employ,
Thro' such throng'd scenes full oft I'll range,
Oft crowd into the rich exchange:
Or to yon wharf aside the moat,
Where the anchor'd ships do float,
And others hastening into bay,
Swell their sails in fair array;
Wafting to Albion's sons the store.
That each Peruvian mine can pour;
Wafting to Albion's smiling dames
The ruby's glow, the diamond's flames,
Till all the Indies rush into the Thames.
Joys vast as these my fancy claims;
And joys like these if Peace inspire,
Peace, with thee I string the lyre.
HENCE, loathed Melancholy,
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born!
In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy, Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-raven sings;
There, under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But come, thou goddess, fair and free, In heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne ; And by men, heart-easing Mirth; Whom lovely Venus at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; Or whether (as some sages sing,)
The frolick wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a maying,
There, on beds of violets blue,
And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew,
Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as you go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty:
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free;
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
'Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the sweet briar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:
While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack, or the barn-door,
Stoutly struts his dames before:
Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill:
Sometimes walking, not unseen,
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate
Where the great sun begins his state,
Rob'd in flames, and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
While the ploughman near at hand
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
And the milk-maid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the landscape round it measures:
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains, on whose barren breast
The lab'ring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide:
Towers and battlements it sees,
Bosom'd high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by, a cottage chimney smoaks,
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Are at their savoury dinner set
Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
And then in haste her bower she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
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