Classic Poem

How pleasant is this flowery Plain and Grove!
What perfect scenes of Innocence and Love!
As if the Gods, when all things here below
Were curs'd, reserv'd this place to let us know
How beautiful the World at first was made
Ere Mankind by Ambition was betray'd.
The happy Swain in these enamell'd Fields,
Possesses all the Good that Plenty yields;
Pure without mixture, as it first did come,
From the great Treasury of Nature's Womb;
Free from Disturbance here he lives at ease,
Contented with a little Flock's encrease,
And cover'd with the gentle wings of Peace.
No Fears, no Storms of War his Thoughts molest,
Ambition is a stranger to his Breast;
His Sheep, his Crook, and Pipe, are all his Store,
He needs not, neither does he covet more.
Oft to the silent Groves he does retreat,
Whose Shades defend him from the scorching Heat:
In these Recesses unconcern'd he lyes,
Whilst through the Boughs the whisp'ring Zephire flies,
And the Wood Choristers on ev'ry Tree,
Lull him asleep, with their sweet Harmony.
Ah happy Life! Ah blest Retreat,
Void of the Troubles that attend the Great!
From Pride, and courtly Follies, free
From all their gaudy Pomps and Vanity:
No guilty Remorse does their Pleasure annoy,
Nor disturb the Delights of their innocent Joy.
Monarchs, whom Cities and Kingdoms obey,
Are not half so contented, or happy as they.