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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,
Where to rivers murmuring,
The sweet birds all the Summer sing,
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease.
Stranger, does thy heart deplore
Friends whom thou wilt see no more?
Does thy wounded spirit prove
Pangs of hopeless, severed love
Thee the stream that gushes clear,
Thee the birds that carol near,
Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie
And dream of their wild lullaby ;
Come to bless these scenes of peace,
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease.

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,
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 Greenwood.
0! when 'tis summer weather,
And the yellow bee, with fairy sound,
The waters clear is humming round,
And the cuckoo sings unseen,
And the leaves are waving green

0! then 'tis sweet,
In some retreat,

The holy silence is His voice :
I lie and listen, and rejoice.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

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To hear the murmuring dove,
With those whom on earth alone we love,
And to wind through the greenwood together.

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.

Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow:
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life in this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine, and curious peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
Withdraws into its happiness.
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and claps its silver wings, .
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

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,
And Innocence, thy sister dear
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.
Society is all but rude
To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name.
Little, alas! they know or heed,
How far these beauties her exceed !
Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.

Such was the happy garden state,
While man there walked without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there :
Two paradises are in one,
To live in paradise alone.
How well the skilful gardener drew
Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new!
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run;
And, as it works, th' industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers ?

• 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,
The Garden.

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 ?
When God did man to his own likeness make, To which we nothing pay or give;
As much as clay, though of the purest kind, They, like all other poets, live
By the great potter's art refined,

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,'

head.

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