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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-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 am'rous 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 hers exceed!
Fair trees! where
s'e'er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own
be found.
When we have run our passion's heat
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;
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
Upon my mouth do crush
their wine;
The nectarine, and curious peach,
Into
my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as
I pass,
Ensnared with flow'rs, 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 combs its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
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!
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
Of flow'rs 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 flow'rs!
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