English

Hard by, there is a secret greenwood nook —
Haply by fairies formed, for the repose
And pleasure of their queen: — a silvery brook,
Reflecting all that overhangs it, flows
Musically by, with noise of many springs;
The young birds tenant it, and woo and pair,
And silent sit to hear the Thrush, who sings
His frequent song of summer-blytheness there.
'Twill soon be reach'd, if we use willing speed;
Then let us hence — making so little stir,
Our light steps shall not rouse the grasshopper.

'Tis vain, my Soul, 'tis impious all,
The Human Lot to mourn,
That Life so soon must fleet away,
And Dust to Dust return.

Alas! from Death the Terrors fly,
When once 'tis understood;
'Tis Nature's Call, 'tis God's Decree,
And is, and must be good.

Wearied his Limbs with honest Toil,
And void of Cares his Breast,
See how the lab'ring Hind sinks down
Each Night to wholsom Rest.

No nauseous Fumes perplex his Sleep,
No guilty Starts surprise;
The Visions that his Fancy forms,

Oh Moon, it is a passionate delight
To pore upon thy beautiful wan face,
And watch thee treading thy lone way by night,
Like Psyche seeking her blind Love's embrace!
What art thou, fairest Vision? Thou dost seem
Sometimes a northern nymph, climbing the snows
Of her free mountains proudly. Awhile I deem
Thou art a mermaid, whose moist forehead glows
To see thy beauties mirrored, and dost dress
Thy golden tresses by the sheeny sea.
Sometimes I think thee a chaste shepherdess,

Oh Nightingale, that poet sure was sad
Who called thee Sorrow's bird! Unto my ear,
(Familiar to her mournful voice, as 'twere
A fretful sister's,) thy saddest song seems glad
As the Lark's matin when the trees are clad —
As the blythe Cuckoo when white May is near —
Or any sound that maketh Delight mad,
And drains a passionate heart of its fond tear.
Let the dull-eared deem thee a melancholy
Bird and sorrowful, and misconceive thy song,
Heard in Night's silence the calm woods among:

Sweet lonely Grott! nor art thou less
 Than those antique Retreats admir'd,
Where or the Sylvan Goddesses,
 Or where Diana 's Self retir'd;

In Thee no glorious Roofs are shown,
 Nor the proud Column's graceful Height;
But hoary Moss, and rustic Stone,
 Commend thy Structure to the Sight;

In this plain Neatness lovelier far,
 Than all the pompous Piles of State,
Since here nor enters Dread, nor Care,
 Nor busy Strife, nor factious Hate.

Here CAROLINE to learned Ease,
 And studious Solitude resign'd,

Here, Traveller, from Human Eyes
Conceal'd for ever Cowley lies:
In this mean Cell the Poet chose
To seek his long-lov'd last Repose;
When tir'd with each ambitious Strife,
And all the foolish Farce of Life,
To sacred Silence he withdrew,
And bid the busy World adieu.
His better Part surviving tries
To Truth's and Wisdom's Heights to rise,
The solid Joys of Virtue finds,
Converses with Celestial Minds,
And pitying sees what various Woe
The giddy Croud pursues below.

A SKETCH ON THE SPOT .

The room was low and lone, but linger'd there,
In careless loveliness, the marks of mind;
The page of chivalry, superb and drear,
Beside a half-fill'd vase of wine reclined,
Told how romance and gaiety combined.
And there, like things of immortality,
Stood statues, in their master's soul enshrined,

The flames of fyre and clowds of cold, repugnant in my brest,
Hath quite exiled me from ioy, and reft all quiet rest.
Yet oft (alas) in shewe I smile, to shade my inwarde smarte,
When in my laughter waues of woe, well nie do burst my harte.
Whose driery thoughts I would to God, were seene so ful to thee,
As mine afflicted minde in payne, doth powre them out on mee.
So should perhaps thy frozen hart, now harde as Flintie stone,
Within thy brest w th melting teares, take ruth on this my mone.

No, no, 'tis in vain in this turbulent Town,
To expect either Pleasure or Rest;
To Hurry and Nonsense still tying us down;
'Tis an overgrown Prison at best.

From hence to the Country escaping away,
Leave the Croud and the Bustle behind;
And there you'll see liberal Nature display
A thousand Delights to Mankind.

The Change of the Seasons, the Sports of the Fields,
The sweetly-diversify'd Scene,
The Groves, and the Gardens — nay ev'ry thing yields
A Happiness ever serene.

Spring returns, the Winter's gone,
And Nature puts her Beauties on.
The Sun, that erst shone out from high,
Feebly through the frozen Sky,
Now rejoices to display
All the Majesty of Day.
The teeming Earth her Riches yields,
And clothes the Trees, and paints the Fields,
And, grateful for its Blessings giv'n,
Breathes a thousand Sweets to Heav'n.
The cloudless Æther shines serene,
And graceful nods the Sylvan Scene.
Old Ocean smooths his Brow, and all
His Storms subside, his Sürges fall,