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Who, that has reason and his smell,
Though she herself and her gay host were drest Would not among roses and jasmine dwell, With all the shining glories of the East ; Rather than all his spirits choke,
When lavish Art her costly work had done, With exhalations of dirt and smoke,
The honor and the prize of bravery And all th' uncleanness which does drown, Was by the garden from the palace won, In pestilential clouds, a populous town?
And every rose and lily there did stand The earth itself breathes better perfumes here, Better attired by Nature's hand. Than all the female men, or women, there
The case thus judged against the king we see, Not without cause, about them bear.
By one, that would not be so rich, though wiser far
than he. When Epicurus to the world had taught, That pleasure was the chiefest good,
Nor does this happy place only dispense (And was, perhaps, i’ th' right, if rightly under- Such various pleasures to the sense ; stood),
Here health itself does live, His life he to his doctrine brought,
That salt of life which does to all a relish give, And in a garden's shade that sovereign pleasure Its standing pleasure and intrinsic wealth, sought :
The body's virtue and the soul's good - fortune, Whoever a true epicure would be,
health. May there find cheap and virtuous luxury. The tree of life, when it in Eden stood, Vitellius's table, which did hold
Did its immortal head to Heaven rear; As many creatures as the ark of old;
It lasted a tall cedar, till the flood; That fiscal table, to which every day
Now a small thorny shrub it does appear; All countries did a constant tribute pay,
Nor will it thrive too everywhere: Could nothing more delicious afford
It always here is freshest seen, Than Nature's liberality,
'Tis only here an evergreen. Helped with a little art and industry,
If, through the strong and beauteous fence Allows the meanest gardener's board.
Of temperance and innocence,
They must not think here to assail
A land unarmed or without a guard; Yet still the fruits of earth we see
They must fight for it, and dispute it hard, Placed the third story high in all her luxury. Before they can prevail :
Scarce any plant is growing here,
But 'tis the country and the field,
That furnish it with staff and shield. With bright Assyrian carpets on them spread, Where does the wisdom and the power divine To hide the metal's poverty;
In a more bright and sweet reflection shine Though she looked up to roofs of gold,
Where do we finer strokes and colors see And nought around her could behold
Of the Creator's real poetry, But silk, and rich embroidery,
Than when we with attention look And Babylonish tapestry,
Upon the third day's volume of the book And wealthy Hiram's princely dye;
If we could open and intend our eye, Though Ophir's starry stones met everywhere her We all, like Moses, should espy eye;
Even in a bush the radiant Deity.
But we despise these, his inferior ways,
Upon the flowers of Heaven we gaze;
The life of mankind sway. Although no part of mighty Nature be More stored with beauty, power, and mystery ; Yet, to encourage human industry, God has so ordered, that no other part Such space and such dominion leaves for Art.
'Tis likelier, much, that you should with me
stay, Than 'tis that you should carry me away; And trust me not, my friends, if every day,
I walk not here with more delight Than ever, after the most happy sight, In triumph to the Capitol I rode To thank the gods, and to be thought myself almost a god."
Inscription in a hermitage.
We nowhere Art do so triumphant see,
As when it grafts or buds the tree.
What law he's pleased to give !
The golden fruit that worthy is
Now wonders at herself, to see
T'entice him to a throne again. “ If I, my friends,” said he, “should to you show All the delights which in these gardens grow,
Within my limits lone and still,
At morn I take my customed round,
At eve, within yon studious nook,
Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show,
With thine, much purer, to compare;
Are both too mean,
To vie priority;
We never meet again;
Than he who his whole age out-wears
Good God! how sweet are all things here !
How cleanly do we feed and lie!
What peace, what unanimity!
Oh, how happy here's our leisure !
Dear solitude, the soul's best friend,
With thee I here converse at will,
And would be glad to do so still, For it is thon alone that keep'st the soul awake.
O my beloved rocks, that rise
How dearly do I love,
In the artificial night
Have I taken, do I take!
In your recesses' friendly shade,
All my sorrows open laid, And my most secret woes intrusted to your pri.
How calm and quiet a delight
Is it, alone
By none offended, and offending none ! To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease; And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease.
Lord! would men let me alone, What an over-happy one
And o'er my thoughts are cast
Glories that faded fast,
Should I think myself to be Might I in this desert place, (Which most men in discourse disgrace,)
Live but undisturbed and free!
Would I, maugre Winter's cold,
Without an envious eye
As poised on vibrant wings,
To the red flowers,
I linger in delight,
ROSE TERRY COOKE.
Reve du Midi.
Hymn to Pan.
O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;
Who lovest to see the Hamadryads dress
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken; With the heavy scent of blossoms as they pass; And through whole solemn hours dost sit and
The dreary melody of bedded reeds
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth,
Bethiifking thee, how melancholy loth
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx,- do thou now,
By thy love's milky brow,
By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles
Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles,
What time thou wanderest at eventide
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side
Of thine enmossed realms! O thou, to whom
Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom
Their ripened fruitage; yellow-girted bees
Their golden honeycombs; our village leas
Their fairest blossomed beans and poppied corn;
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,
To sing for thee; low-creeping strawberries
Their summer coolness; pent-up butterflies
Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh-budding year
All its completions- be quickly near,
HYMN TO PAN.
By every wind that nods the mountain pine, O forester divine!
Thou to whom every faun and satyr flies For willing service; whether to surprise The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit; Or upward ragged precipices flit To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; Or by mysterious enticement draw Bewildered shepherds to their path again; Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, And gather up all fancifullest shells For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping; Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, The while they pelt each other on the crown With silvery oak-apples, and fir-cones brownBy all the echoes that about thee ring, Hear us, 0 satyr king!
To Pan. All ye woods, and trees, and bowers, All ye virtues and ye powers That inhabit in the lakes, In the pleasant springs or brakes,
Move your feet
To our sound,
All this ground,
He is great, and he is just,
Let us fling,
Whilst we sing,
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
O Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, While ever and anon to his shorn peers A ram goes bleating! Winder of the horn, When snouted wild-boars, routing tender corn, Anger our huntsmen! Breather round our farms, To keep off mildews, and all weather harms ! Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, And wither drearily on barren moors ! Dread opener of the mysterious doors Leading to universal knowledge - see, Great son of Dryope, The many that are come to pay their vows With leaves about their brows!
The Birch-Tree. RIPPLING through thy branches goes the sunshine, Among thy leaves that palpitate for ever; Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned, The soul once of some tremulous inland river, Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah! dumb, dumb
Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings —such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain; be still the leaven That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth, Gives it a touch ethereal, a new birth; Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea ; An element filling the space between; An unknown — but no more: we humbly screen With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, And, giving out a shout most heaven-rending, Conjure thee to receive our humble pæan, l'pon thy Mount Lycean!
While all the forest, witched with slumberous moon
shine, Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence, Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended, I hear afar thy whispering, gleaming islands, And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung
Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet,