Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel,—and eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by,
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.

John Keats [1795-1821]

THE QUIET LIFE

WHAT pleasure have great princes
More dainty to their choice

Than herdsmen wild, who careless
In quiet life rejoice,

And fortune's fate not fearing
Sing sweet in summer morning?

Their dealings plain and rightful,
Are void of all deceit;

They never know how spiteful
It is to kneel and wait

On favorite, presumptuous,

Whose pride is vain and sumptuous.

All day their flocks each tendeth;
At night, they take their rest;
More quiet than who sendeth
His ship unto the East,

Where gold and pearl are plenty;
But getting, very dainty.

For lawyers and their pleading,

They 'steem it not a straw;

They think that honest meaning
Is of itself a law:

Whence conscience judgeth plainly,

They spend no money vainly.

The Wish

O happy who thus liveth!
Not caring much for gold;
With clothing which sufficeth
To keep him from the cold.
Though poor and plain his diet

Yet merry it is, and quiet.

1609

William Byrd [1538?-1623]

THE WISH

WELL then, I now do plainly see

This busy world and I shall ne'er agree;
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does, of all meats, the soonest cloy;
And they, methinks, deserve my pity
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings
Of this great hive, the city!

Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave,

May I a small house and large garden have;
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!

And since Love ne'er will from me flee,

A mistress moderately fair,

And good as guardian-angels are,

Only beloved, and loving me!

O fountains! when in you shall I

Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy?

O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made
The happy tenant of your shade?

Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood!

Here's wealthy Nature's treasury,

Where all the riches lie, that she

Has coined and stamped for good.

Pride and ambition here

Only in far-fetched metaphors appear;

Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,
And naught but echo flatter.

The gods, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way; And therefore we may boldly say

That 'tis the way too thither.

How happy here should I

And one dear She live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.

I should have then this only fear:
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me,

And so make a city here.

Abraham Cowley [1618-1667]

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY

"WHY, William, on that old gray stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,

Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?

"Where are your books?—that light bequeathed

To beings else forlorn and blind!

Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:

"The eye-it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.

The Tables Turned

"Nor less I dream that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours

In a wise passiveness.

"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things forever speaking,

That nothing of itself will come,

But we must still be seeking?

"Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may,

I sit upon this old gray stone,

And dream my time away."

1611

William Wordsworth (1770-1850]

THE TABLES TURNED

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:

Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening luster mellow

Through all the long green fields has spread,

His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:

Come, hear the woodland linnet,

How sweet his music! on my life

There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!

He, too, is no mean preacher:

Come forth into the light of things,

Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless-
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,

Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;

Our meddling intellect

Misshapes the beauteous forms of things:

We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;

Close up those barren leaves;

Come forth, and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850]

SIMPLE NATURE

BE it not mine to steal the cultured flower
From any garden of the rich and great,
Nor seek with care, through many a weary hour,
Some novel form of wonder to create.
Enough for me the leafy woods to rove,
And gather simple cups of morning dew,
Or, in the fields and meadows that I love,
Find beauty in their bells of every hue.
Thus round my cottage floats a fragrant air,
And though the rustic plot be humbly laid,

Yet, like the lilies gladly growing there,

I have not toiled, but take what God has made. My Lord Ambition passed, and smiled in scorn; I plucked a rose, and, lo! it had no thorn.

George John Romanes [1848-1894]