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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! when 'tis summer weather,
0! then 'tis sweet,
The holy silence is His voice :
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.
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, 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,
By the great potter's art refined,
A kind of Heaven too did appear,
That man no happiness might want,
He did a garden for him plant
To which we nothing pay or give;
They, like all other poets, live
'Tis well if they become not prey.
But to our plants art's music too,
When Orpheus strook th' inspired lute,
For God, the universal architect, .
'T had been as easy to erect
He wanted not the skill or power;
In the world's fabric those were shown,
These are the spells that to kind sleep invite,
And nothing does within resistance make,
Who would not choose to be awake,
As the most soft and sweetest bed ;