| |
| TO 1 me, no heedless, listless looker on, | |
| The idle fashions of a thoughtless race | |
| Are pleasant. Though my feeble voice swell not | |
| The hum of crowds, nor do I judge it wise | |
| To mingle in their scenes, I do not yet | 5 |
| Forget my kind. Lull’d to tranquillity | |
| By charms that Nature, in a kindly mood, | |
| Grants, in profusion, to the lover-breath | |
| Of youthful spring, I seek the grassy side | |
| Of this clear brook. I deem it not unwise | 10 |
| To woo seclusion at the morning hour. | |
| What place, along the hedge, the op’ning rose, | |
| Peeps through the trembling dews, while all the wood | |
| Rings with the varied strains of gratitude | |
| That nature’s children breathe, as flutt’ring light | 15 |
| From bough to bough, they make their duty, pleasure. | |
| Driven, by a thankless world, to seek Content | |
| In rural scenes, I sought and found her there. | |
| With her it solaces me much to while, | |
| In musings sweet, an idle hour away, | 20 |
| On gifts that God has lavish’d on mankind. | |
| The last, the sweetest boon he gave to man, | |
| Was Love. In Eden’s bowers the cherub first | |
| Was found. What hour uncoffin’d ghosts steal out, | |
| To sit by new-made graves, or stand behind | 25 |
| The village matron’s chair, to counterfeit | |
| The clicking of the clock, or, yet more rude, | |
| Tap at the window of the dreaming maid, | |
| Or glide in winding-sheet across the room, | |
| Borrowing the form that late her lover wore; | 30 |
| Upon a moon-beam, at such silent hour, | |
| The boy descended, and, alighting soft, | |
| Chose for his throne the mild blue eye of Eve. | |
| On either pinion sat a fairy form | |
| To guide the arrows, that, in wanton mood | 35 |
| The boy would hazard—This Romance was named, | |
| And Fancy, that—One pluck’d, with busy hand, | |
| Soft down from doves, and, artful, twined it round | |
| The arrow’s head, to hide from mortal eyes | |
| The scorpion sting that barb’d the weapon’s point. | 40 |
| While that, with syren smile, a mirror show’d | |
| On whose smooth surface danced, in angel robes, | |
| Perfection’s form. And ever from that night, | |
| The sportful twins attend the train of Love. | |
| Thus was the garden, first by Adam’s voice, | 45 |
| Call’d Paradise. And now what spot the boy | |
| His transient visit pays, in wilderness | |
| Or bower, or palace, or the lowly shed, | |
| Man names it Paradise, nor errs he much | |
| In such a name. | 50 |
| Though oft the side-long look, | |
| The heavy sigh, that speaks the anxious doubt; | |
| The flitting blush that lights the virgin’s cheek; | |
| The mind, abstracted from the present scene; | |
| Eyes, idly fix’d unconscious on the hearth; | 55 |
| The trembling lip, and melancholy mien; | |
| Though these, no dubious signs, proclaim the boy | |
| The city’s visitor, he yet prefers | |
| To hold his court by moon-light, in the grove, | |
| Or where the babbling brook winds through the wood, | 60 |
| Or where on shady side of sloping hill, | |
| The green vine crawls, or where innum’rous boughs, | |
| Raising each other’s leaves just over head, | |
| Keep the rude sun-beam from the lover’s couch, | |
| The grassy bank. Here Love his revels keeps, | 65 |
| While every breeze blows health, and every wind, | |
| That sweeps the maiden’s locks, and shows new charms, | |
| Makes music sweeter than Apollo’s lyre. | |
| Sweet is the landscape, wild and picturesque, | |
| To him, the youth, whose glowing fancy paints | 70 |
| The love-crown’d cottage as the seat of bliss! | |
| Sweet is the forest’s twilight gloom, and sweet | |
| The May-morn ramble! Sweet to pace along | |
| The farm-boy’s path, that, winding through the wood, | |
| Leads to variety, within whose bounds | 75 |
| Alone is found the food that never cloys! | |
| But sweeter far than brook, or walk, or wood, | |
| Or May-morn ramble, or the evening stroll, | |
| Far sweeter than imagination’s stores, | |
| The stolen interview with her he loves! | 80 |
| Sweet is the voice of Nature to his ear, | |
| Long pain’d with list’ning to the tale of vice! | |
| Sweet is the mock-bird’s counterfeited note! | |
| And sweet the murm’ring of the busy bee! | |
| Sweet is the distant bell, at silent eve, | 85 |
| That guides the cow-boy where the cattle stray! | |
| Sweet is the lengthen’d, still increasing sound, | |
| Of horn that calls from meadows, wood, or field, | |
| The weary lab’rer to his healthful meal! | |
| The flute may cheat his melancholy mind | 90 |
| Of many a fancied ill, and as its strains | |
| Float on the evening breeze, may gather mild | |
| And mellowing influence to his greedy ear, | |
| By mingling with the moonbeams! Yet to him | |
| No note so musical—no strain so sweet | 95 |
| As sighs that tell his fond—his doubting heart, | |
| The love she would, but cannot hide from him! | |
