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High up the lone wood-pigeon sits. And the woodpecker pecks and flits.
Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, The brooklet rings its tinkling bells,
The swarming insects drone and hum, The partridge beats his throbbing drum,
The squirrel leaps among the boughs And chatters in his leafy house.
Come to these Scenes of Peace.
COME to these scenes of peace,
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.
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,
O, this is peace! I have no need Of friend to talk, of book to read;
A dear Companion here abides ;
0! then 'tis sweet,
The holy silence is His voice :
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.
To hear the murmuring dove,
But when 'tis winter weather,
And crosses grieve,
To sit and sing
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
The Garden. How vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak, or bays: And their incessant labors see Crowned from some single herb, or tree, Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade Does prudently their toils upbraid ; While all the flowers and trees do close, To weave the garlands of repose.
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
No white nor red was ever seen
Such was the happy garden state,
• ANDREW MARVELL.
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.
If any part of either we expect,
This may our judgment in the search direct;
God the first garden made, and the first city Cain. HAPPY art thou, whom God does bless, With the full choice of thine own happiness;
O blessed shades! O gentle cool retreat And happier yet, because thou’rt blest
From all th' immoderate heat, With prudence, how to choose the best:
In which the frantic world does burn and sweat! In books and gardens thou hast placed aright This does the Lion-star, ambition's rage; (Things, which thou well dost understand ;
This avarice, the Dog-star's thirst, assuage; And both dost make with thy laborious hand)
Everywhere else their fatal power we see ; Thy noble, innocent delight;
They make and rule man's wretched destiny: And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again dost
They neither set, nor disappear, meet
But tyrannize o'er all the year; Both pleasures more refined and sweet;
Whilst we ne'er feel their flame or influence here. The fairest garden in her looks,
The birds that dance from bough to bough, And in her mind the wisest books.
And sing above in every tree, 0, who would change these soft, yet solid joys, Are not from fears and cares more free For empty shows and senseless noise ;
Than we, who lie, or sit, or walk, below, And all which rank ambition breeds,
And should by right be singers too. Which seems such beauteous flowers, and are such What prince's choir of music can excel poisonous weeds 1
That, which within this shade does dwell ?
Without reward, or thanks for their obliging pains; Could the divine impression take,
'Tis well if they become not prey. He thought it fit to place him where
The whistling winds add their less artful strains, A kind of Heaven too did appear,
And a grave bass the murmuring fountains play ; As far as Earth could such a likeness bear:
Nature does all this harmony bestow, That man no happiness might want,
But to our plants art's music too, Which Earth to her first master could afford,
The pipe, theorbo, and guitar, we owe; He did a garden for him plant
The lute itself, which once was green and mute, By the quick hand of his omnipotent word. When Orpheus strook th' inspired lute, As the chief help and joy of human life,
The trees danced round, and understood He gave him the first gift; first, even before a
By sympathy the voice of wood. wife.
These are the spells that to kind sleep invite, For God, the universal architect, .
And nothing does within resistance make, "T had been as easy to erect
Which yet we moderately take ; A Louvre or Escurial, or a tower
Who would not choose to be awake, That might with Heaven communication hold, While he's encompast round with such delight, As Babel vainly thought to do of old :
To th' ear, the nose, the touch, the taste, and He wanted not the skill or power ;
sight In the world's fabric those were shown,
When Venus would her dear Ascanius keep And the materials were all his own.
A prisoner in the downy bands of sleep, But well he knew what place would best agree The odorous herbs and flowers beneath him spread, With innocence and with felicity;
As the most soft and sweetest bed; And we elsewhere still seek for them in vain; Not her own lap would more have charmed his If any part of either yet remain,'