SONG.

UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note

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 loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,

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,
Where, to rivers murmuring,

The sweet birds all the Summer sing,
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease!
Stranger, does thy heart deplore
Friends whom thou wilt see no more?
Does thy wounded spirit prove
Pangs of hopeless, severed love?
Thee, the stream that gushes clear—
Thee, the birds that carol near
Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie
And dream of their wild lullaby;
Come to bless these scenes of peace,
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease.

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE GREENWOOD.

Oh! when 'tis summer weather,
And the yellow bee, with fairy sound,
The waters clear is humming round,
And the cuckoo sings unseen,
And the leaves are waving green—
Oh! then 't is sweet,

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 friends deceive,

And rain and sleet
The lattice beat,-

Oh! then 'tis sweet

To sit and sing

Spring,

THE GARDEN.

How vainly men themselves amaze,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays:
And their incessant labors see
Crowned from some single herb, or tree,
Whose short and narrow-verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers, and trees, do close,
To weave the garlands of repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow
Society is all but rude

To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name

Little, alas! they know or heed,

How far these beauties her exceed!

Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race.
Apollo hunted Daphne so,

Only that she might laurel grow:
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life in this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine, and curious peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach ;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
Withdraws into its happiness.
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made

To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and claps its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was the happy garden state,
While man there walked without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 't was beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises are in one,
To live in paradise alone.

How well the skilful gard'ner drew
Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new!
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
And, as it works, th' industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers?

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;
The fairest garden in her looks,

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,
As much as clay, though of the purest kind,
By the great potter's art refined,
Could the divine impression take,

He thought it fit to place him, where
A kind of Heaven too did appear,

As far as Earth could such a likeness bear:
That man no happiness might want,
Which Earth to her first master could afford,

He did a garden for him plant

By the quick hand of his omnipotent word.
As the chief help and joy of human life,
He gave him the first gift; first, even before
a wife.

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,

Cain.

O blessed shades! O gentle cool retreat

From all th' immoderate heat,

The odorous herbs and flowers beneath him

spread,

sweat!

This does the Lion-star, ambition's rage;
This avarice, the Dog-star's thirst, assuage;
Every where else their fatal power we see;
They make and rule man's wretched destiny:
They neither set, nor disappear,
But tyrannize o'er all the year;

Whilst we ne'er feel their flame or influence here.

The birds that dance from bough to bough,
And sing above in every tree,

Are not from fears and cares more free
Than we, who lie, or sit, or walk, below,
And should by right be singers too.
What prince's choir of music can excel

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,
Rather than all his spirits choke,
With exhalations of dirt and smoke,

And all th' uncleanness which does drown,
In pestilential clouds, a populous town?
The earth itself breathes better perfumes
here,

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:

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,
And nothing does within resistance make,
Which yet we moderately take;
Who would not choose to be awake,
While he's encompast round with such de-
light,

To th' ear, the nose, the touch, the taste, and sight!

As many creatures as the ark of old;
That fiscal table, to which every day
All countries did a constant tribute pay,
Could nothing more delicious afford
Than Nature's liberality,

Helped with a little art and industry,
Allows the meanest gardener's board.
The wanton taste no fish or fowl can choose,
For which the grape or melon she would
lose;

Though all th' inhabitants of sea and air
Be listed in the glutton's bill of fare,

Yet still the fruits of earth we see
Placed the third story high in all her luxury.

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;

Methinks I see great Dioclesian walk
In the Salonian garden's noble shade,
Which by his own imperial hands was made.
I see him smile, methinks, as he does talk
With the ambassadors, who come in vain

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,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Portrayed with many a holy deed
Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed.
Then, as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn,
And at the close, the gleams behold
Of parting wings, be-dropt with gold.

While such pure joys my bliss create,
Who but would smile at guilty state?
Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm oblivion's humble grot?
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff, and amice gray;
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage?

THOMAS WARTON.