I watch the mowers as they go With even stroke their scythes they swing, In tune their merry whetstones ring. Behind, the nimble youngsters run, And toss the thick swaths in the sun. The cattle graze; while warm and still Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, And bright, where summer breezes break, The butterfly and humble-bee The squirrel leaps among the boughs The oriole flashes by; and, look! Into the mirror of the brook, Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, Two tiny feathers fall and float. As silently, as tenderly, The down of peace descends on me. O, this is peace! I have no need Of friend to talk, of book to read; A dear Companion here abides; Close to my thrilling heart He hides; The holy silence is His voice: I lie and listen, and rejoice. JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. Song. UNDER the greenwood tree And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall he see No enemy But Winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall he see No enemy But Winter and rough weather. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Come to these Scenes of Peace. COME to these scenes of peace, The Greenwood. O! when 'tis summer weather, To hear the murmuring dove, THE GARDEN. With those whom on earth alone we love, But when 'tis winter weather, And crosses grieve, And friends deceive, And rain and sleet The lattice beat, O! then 'tis sweet To sit and sing Of the friends with whom, in the days of Spring, We roamed through the greenwood together. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. The Garden. How vainly men themselves amaze, Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, No white nor red was ever seen When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods who mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race. Apollo hunted Daphne so, What wondrous life in this I lead! Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less The mind, that ocean where each kind Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Such was the happy garden state, While man there walked without a mate: How well the skilful gardener drew 45 ANDREW MARVELL. The Garden. HAPPY art thou, whom God does bless, And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again dost meet Both pleasures more refined and sweet; The fairest garden in her looks, And in her mind the wisest books. O, who would change these soft, yet solid joys, If any part of either we expect, This may our judgment in the search direct; O blessed shades! O gentle cool retreat In which the frantic world does burn and sweat! But tyrannize o'er all the year; Whilst we ne'er feel their flame or influence here. The birds that dance from bough to bough, And sing above in every tree, Are not from fears and cares more free Than we, who lie, or sit, or walk, below, Which seems such beauteous flowers, and are such What prince's choir of music can excel poisonous weeds? When God did man to his own likeness make, As far as Earth could such a likeness bear: By the quick hand of his omnipotent word. He gave him the first gift; first, even before a wife. For God, the universal architect,. "T had been as easy to erect A Louvre or Escurial, or a tower That might with Heaven communication hold, As Babel vainly thought to do of old: He wanted not the skill or power; In the world's fabric those were shown, And the materials were all his own. But well he knew what place would best agree With innocence and with felicity; And we elsewhere still seek for them in vain; If any part of either yet remain,` That, which within this shade does dwell? To which we nothing pay or give; Without reward, or thanks for their obliging pains; 'Tis well if they become not prey. The whistling winds add their less artful strains, And a grave bass the murmuring fountains play; Nature does all this harmony bestow, But to our plants art's music too, The pipe, theorbo, and guitar, we owe; The lute itself, which once was green and mute, When Orpheus strook th' inspired lute, The trees danced round, and understood By sympathy the voice of wood. These are the spells that to kind sleep invite, Who would not choose to be awake, While he's encompast round with such delight, To th' ear, the nose, the touch, the taste, and sight? When Venus would her dear Ascanius keep A prisoner in the downy bands of sleep, Not her own lap would more have charmed his head. |