| |
| HOW vainly men themselves amaze, | |
| To win the palm, the oak, or bays; | |
| And their incessant labours see | |
| Crowned from some single herb, or tree, | |
| Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade | 5 |
| 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? | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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: | 20 |
| Little, alas! they know or heed, | |
| How far these beauties her’s exceed! | |
| Fair trees! wheres’e’er your bark I wound, | |
| No name shall but your own be found. | |
| |
| When we have run our passion’s heat, | 25 |
| Love hither makes his best retreat. | |
| The gods, that mortal beauty chase, | |
| Still in a tree did end their race; | |
| Apollo hunted Daphne so, | |
| Only that she might laurel grow; | 30 |
| And Pan did after Syrinx speed, | |
| Not as a nymph, but for a reed. | |
| |
| What wondrous life is this I lead! | |
| Ripe apples drop about my head; | |
| The luscious clusters of the vine | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| |
| 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, | 45 |
| 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, | 50 |
| Casting the body’s vest aside, | |
| My soul into the boughs does slide: | |
| There, like a bird, it sits and sings, | |
| Then whets and combs its silver wings, | |
| And, till prepared for longer flight, | 55 |
| Waves in its plumes the various light. | |
| |
| Such was that happy garden-state, | |
| While man there walked without a mate: | |
| After a place so pure and sweet, | |
| What other help could yet be meet! | 60 |
| But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share | |
| To wander solitary there: | |
| Two paradises ’twere in one; | |
| To live in paradise alone. | |
| |
| How well the skilful gardener drew | 65 |
| Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new; | |
| Where, from above, the milder sun | |
| Does through a fragrant zodiac run, | |
| And, as it works, the industrious bee | |
| Computes its time as well as we! | 70 |
| How could such sweet and wholesome hours | |
| Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers? | |
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