Thy feasting tables shall be hills With daisies spread, and daffodils; Where thou shalt sit, and redbreast by, A bag and bottle thou shalt have, The wearer's no mean shepherdess: And shamefaced plum, all simpering there: Of every straight and smooth-skinn'd tree; To make thy maids and self free mirth, These, nay, and more thine own shall be, HERRICK. A PASTORAL REMONSTRANCE. O, TARRY, gentle traveller; O, tarry now at setting day; Nor haste to leave this lowly vale For lofty mountains far away. O, tell me what has tempted thee Through woods and dreary wilds to roam; O, tell me what has tempted thee To quit thy cot and peaceful home. Say, hast thou not a partner dear That's constant to thy love and kind? To wander in the paths of strife? For life is like yon crimson beam That trembles in the western skies; Full soon, alas! its glories cease; It sparkles-glimmers-fades and dies. O, waste not then thy fleeting hours In foreign climes and paths unknown; Return thee to the happy plains That bounteous nature made thy own. For me, nor gold, nor princely power, Nor purple vest, nor stately dome, Nor all that trophied grandeur boasts Shall lure me from my tranquil home. This rustic cot and silent shade Shall evermore my dwelling be; Beside the brook a simple stone Return then, gentle traveller, Return thee with the morning ray; Nor leave again thy lowly vale, ANONYMOUS. PASTORAL ODE. O SWEETEST of the feather'd quire, O! thrush and blackbird of the wood, Where will ye now to rest retire? Where seek ye now your wonted food? Lo! how around the wintry snows Fast from the darken'd sky descend, With hollow sound the north wind blows, While to its blast the tall trees bend. O hapless birds! in vam the lake Or stream ye seek with weary wings, No more the pool your thirst can slake, The frost has bound the limpid springs. In vain ye seek the well known fields, The well known wood in vain ye try; The naked wood no shelter yields, No food the barren fields supply. Nor may ye yet of man implore To save you from the storms awhile: O, may his gun not wound you sore, Nor may his net your feet beguile! More cruel than the wintry wind, With level'd gun and fatal snare, The tyrant of your gentle kind, He spares not whom the tempests spare. And have ye sung, sweet birds, so long Beneath the summer sun in vain? And will no one requite your song, Which wont so oft to charm the plain? Lo! in this bower, within these bounds, Where oft melodious voices swell, Where oft the tuneful flute resounds; Lo, in this bower the Muses dwell. The Muses, gentle maids, bemoan The sorrows of the feathered throng, Whose voices, tuneful as their own, Warble, untaught, the woods among. VOL. II. RR The Muses smile not that the quire Of birds are barr'd their notes of joy, O, seek ye then this friendly bower, To save the feather'd race from wrongs : Here from the northern winds that blow The hill with pine-trees clad defends, While its soft lap the vale below Fair to the noontide sun extends. And here the sullen months to cheer That shine amid the wintry gloom. O, seek ye then this green retreat, And through these groves of laurel stray, Till vernal suns with genial heat Shall chase the wintry clouds away. Here first the balmy zephyr blows, And first the woods are clad with green, Here earliest yellow crocus grows, And earliest are blue violets seen. |