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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.


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;

The Greenwood.

A dear Companion here abides ;
Close to my thrilling heart He hides;

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.


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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, O, 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?

That, which within this shade does dwell ?

When God did man to his own likeness make,
As much as clay, though of the purest kind,

By the great potter's art refined,
Could the divine impression take,
He thought it fit to place him where

A kind of Heaven too did appear,
As far as Earth could such a likeness bear :

That man no happiness might want,
Which Earth to her first master could afford,

He did a garden for him plant
By the quick hand of his omnipotent word.
As the chief help and joy of human life,
He gave him the first gift; first, even before a


To which we nothing pay or give;

They, like all other poets, live
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.

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,

These are the spells that to kind sleep invite,

And nothing does within resistance make,
Which yet we moderately take;

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 9
When Venus would her dear Ascanius keep
A prisoner in the downy bands of sleep,
The odorous herbs and flowers beneath him spread,

As the most soft and sweetest bed ;
Not her own lap would more have charmed his


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