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For, while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul:
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.
Now, even now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain-turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,

Now, e'en now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts; be great who will; Search for Peace with all your skill: Open wide the lofty door,

Seek her on the marble floor.

In vain ye search, she is not there;
In vain ye search the domes of Care!
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads, and mountain-head,
Along with pleasure, close allied,
Ever by each other's side:
And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

THE COUNTRY WALK

THE morning's fair, the lusty Sun
With ruddy cheek begins to run;
And early birds, that wing the skies,
Sweetly sing to see him rise.

I am resolved, this charming day,
In the open field to stray;

And have no roof above my head,

But that whereon the gods do tread.
Before the yellow barn I see

A beautiful variety

Of strutting cocks, advancing stout,

And flirting empty chaff about,

Hens, ducks, and geese, and all their brood,

And turkeys gobbling for their food,

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ΤΟ

While rustics thrash the wealthy floor,

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And tempt them all to crowd the door.

What a fair face does Nature show! Augusta, wipe thy dusty brow;

A landscape wide salutes my sight,

Of shady vales, and mountains bright;

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And azure heavens I behold,

And clouds of silver and of gold.

And now into the fields I go,

Where thousand flaming flowers glow;

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And every neighbouring hedge I greet,
With honeysuckles smelling sweet.
Now o'er the daisy meads I stray,
And meet with, as I pace my way,
Sweetly shining on the eye,
A rivulet, gliding smoothly by;
Which shows with what an easy tide
The moments of the happy glide.
Here, finding pleasure after pain,
Sleeping, I see a wearied swain,
While all his scrip lies open by,
That does his healthy food supply.

Happy swain, sure happier far
Than lofty kings and princes are!
Enjoy sweet sleep, which shuns the crown,
With all its easy beds of down.

The Sun now shows his noon-tide blaze,
And sheds around me burning rays.

A little onward, and I go

Into the shade that groves bestow;
And on green moss I lay me down,
That o'er the root of oak has grown;
Where all is silent, but some flood
That sweetly murmurs in the wood;
But birds that warble in the sprays,
And charm ev'n Silence with their lays.

Oh, powerful Silence, how you reign
In the poet's busy brain!

His numerous thoughts obey the calls
Of the tuneful water-falls,

Like moles, whene'er the coast is clear,
They rise before thee without fear,

And range in parties here and there.

Some wildly to Parnassus wing, And view the fair Castalian spring; Where they behold a lonely well, Where now no tuneful Muses dwell; But now and then a slavish hind Paddling a troubled pool they find.

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Some trace the pleasing paths of joy,

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Others the blissful scene destroy;

In thorny tracks of sorrow stray,

And pine for Clio far away.

But stay

Methinks her lays I hear,

So smooth! so sweet! so deep! so clear!

No, 'tis not her voice, I find,

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When rushing from yon rustling spray,
It made them vanish all away.

I rouse me up, and on I rove,

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'Tis more than time to leave the grove.
The Sun declines, the evening breeze
Begins to whisper through the trees:
And, as I leave the sylvan gloom,
As to the glare of day I come,

An old man's smoky nest I see,

Leaning on an aged tree:

Whose willow walls, and furzy brow,

A little garden sway below.

Through spreading beds of blooming green,

Matted with herbage sweet, and clean,
A vein of water limps along,

And makes them ever green and young.
Here he puffs upon his spade,

And digs up cabbage in the shade:
His tattered rags are sable brown,
His beard and hair are hoary grown:
The dying sap descends apace,

And leaves a withered hand and face.
Up Grongar Hill I labour now,
And catch at last his bushy brow.
Oh, how fresh, how pure the air!
Let me breathe a little here.
Where am I, Nature? I descry
Thy magazine before me lie!

!

and towers! and

Temples and towns! - and

woods!

And hills!-and vales!—and fields!—and floods!