SONG. UNDER the greenwood tree Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall he see No enemy But Winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall he see No enemy But Winter and rough weather. COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE Come to these scenes of peace, The sweet birds all the Summer sing, WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. SHAKESPEARE. THE GREENWOOD. Oh! when 'tis summer weather, In some retreat, To hear the murmuring dove, With those whom on earth alone we love, And to wind through the greenwood together. But when 'tis winter weather, And crosses grieve, And rain and sleet Oh! then 'tis sweet To sit and sing Spring, THE GARDEN. How vainly men themselves amaze, Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen Little, alas! they know or heed, How far these beauties her exceed! Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound, Of the friends with whom, in the days of No name shall but your own be found. We roamed through the green wood together. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. The gods, who mortal beauty chase, Only that she might laurel grow: What wondrous life in this I lead! Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Such was the happy garden state, How well the skilful gard'ner drew How could such sweet and wholesome hours ANDREW MARVELL. THE GARDEN. HAPPY art thou, whom God does bless, With the full choice of thine own happiness; And happier yet, because thou 'rt blest With prudence, how to choose the best: In books and gardens thou hast placed aright (Things, which thou well dost understand; And both dost make with thy laborious hand) Thy noble, innocent delight; And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again dost meet Both pleasures more refined and sweet; And in her mind the wisest books. Oh, who would change these soft, yet solid joys, For empty shows and senseless noise; And all which rank ambition breeds, Which seems such beauteous flowers, and are such poisonous weeds? When God did man to his own likeness make, He thought it fit to place him, where As far as Earth could such a likeness bear: He did a garden for him plant By the quick hand of his omnipotent word. For God, the universal architect 'T had been as easy to erect A Louvre or Escurial, or a tower That might with Heaven communication hold, As Babel vainly thought to do of old: He wanted not the skill or power; In the world's fabric those were shown, And the materials were all his own. But well he knew, what place would best agree With innocence and with felicity; And we elsewhere still seek for them in vain; If any part of either yet remain, If any part of either we expect, When Venus would her dear Ascanius keep This may our judgment in the search direct; | A prisoner in the downy bands of sleep, God the first garden made, and the first city Cain. O blessed shades! O gentle cool retreat From all th' immoderate heat, The odorous herbs and flowers beneath him spread, As the most soft and sweetest bed; Not her own lap would more have charmed his head. In which the frantic world does burn and Who, that has reason and his smell, sweat! This does the Lion-star, ambition's rage; Whilst we ne'er feel their flame or influence here. The birds that dance from bough to bough, Are not from fears and cares more free That, which within this shade does dwell? To which we nothing pay or give; They, like all other poets, live Would not among roses and jasmine dwell, And all th' uncleanness which does drown, Than all the female men, or women, there Not without cause, about them bear. When Epicurus to the world had taught, That pleasure was the chiefest good, (And was, perhaps, i' th' right, if rightly understood) His life he to his doctrine brought, And in a garden's shade that sovereign plea sure sought: Whoever a true epicure would be, Without reward, or thanks for their obliging Vitellius's table, which did hold pains: 'T is well if they become not prey: The whistling winds add their less artful strains, And a grave bass the murmuring fountains play; Nature does all this harmony bestow, But to our plants, art's music too, The pipe, theorbo, and guitar, we owe; The lute itself, which once was green and mute, When Orpheus strook th' inspired lute, The trees danced round, and understood By sympathy the voice of wood. These are the spells, that to kind sleep invite, To th' ear, the nose, the touch, the taste, and sight! As many creatures as the ark of old; Helped with a little art and industry, Though all th' inhabitants of sea and air Yet still the fruits of earth we see But with no sense the garden does comply, None courts, or flatters, as it does, the eye. When the great Hebrew king did almost strain The wondrous treasures of his wealth, and brain, His royal southern guest to entertain; Though she herself and her gay host were (Though no less full of miracle and praise.) drest With all the shining glories of the East; Better attired by Nature's hand. The case thus judged against the king we see, By one, that would not be so rich, though wiser far than he. Nor does this happy place only dispense That salt of life which does to all a relish give, The tree of life, when it in Eden stood, 'Tis only here an evergreen. Upon the flowers of Heaven we gaze; Although no part of mighty Nature be We nowhere Art do so triumphant see, As when it grafts or buds the tree. It does, like grace, the fallen tree restore If, through the strong and beauteous fence He bids th' ill-natured crab produce Of temperance and innocence, And wholesome labors, and a quiet mind, Any diseases passage find, They must not think here to assail A land unarmed or without a guard; They must fight for it, and dispute it hard, Scarce any plant is growing here, Let cities boast that they provide The gentle apple's winy juice, The golden fruit that worthy is He does the savage hawthorn teach That she's a mother made, and blushes in her Methinks I see great Dioclesian walk 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, '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." ABRAHAM COWLEY. At eve, within yon studious nook, While such pure joys my bliss create, THOMAS WARTON. |