  SWEET pastime here my mind so entertains, Abiding pleasaunce, and heart-feeding joys, To meet this blithsome day these painted plains, These singing maids, and chubby laughing boys, Which hay-time and the summer here employs,— My rod and line doth all neglected lie; A higher joy my former sport destroys: Nature this day doth bait the hook, and I The glad fish am, that’s to be caught thereby. This silken grass, these pleasant flowers in bloom, Among these tasty molehills that do lie Like summer cushions, for all guests that come; Those little feathered folk, that sing and fly Above these trees, in that so gentle sky, Where not a cloud dares soil its heavenly light; And this smooth river softly grieving bye— All fill mine eyes with so divine a sight, As makes me sigh that it should e’er be night. In sooth, methinks the choice I most should prize Were in these meadows of delight to dwell, To share the joyaunce heaven elsewhere denies, The calmness that doth relish passing well, The quiet conscience, that aye bears the bell, And happy musing Nature would supply, Leaving no room for troubles to rebel: Here would I think all day, at night would lie, The hay my bed, my coverlid the sky. So would I live, as nature might command, Taking with Providence my wholesome meals; Plucking the savory peascod from the land, Where rustic lad oft dainty dinner steals. For drink, I’d his me where the moss conceals The little spring so chary from the sun, Then lie, and listen to the merry peals Of distant bells—all other noises shun; Then court the Muses till the day be done. Here would high joys my lowly choice requite; For garden plot, I’d choose this flow’ry lea; Here I in culling nosegays would delight, The lambtoe tuft, the paler culverkey: The cricket’s mirth were talk enough for me, The little birds my choristers should be, Who wear one suit for worship and for play, And make the whole year long one sabbath-day. A thymy hill should be my cushioned seat; An aged thorn, with wild hops intertwined, My bower, where I from noontide might retreat; A hollow oak would shield me from the wind, Or, as might hap, I better shed might find In gentle spot, where fewer paths intrude, The hut of shepherd swain, with rushes lined: There would I tenant be to Solitude, Seeking life’s gentlest joys, to shun the rude. Bidding a long farewell to every trouble, The envy and the hate of evil men; Feeling cares lessen, happiness redouble, And all I lost as if ’twere found again. Vain life unseen; the past alone known then: No worldly intercourse my mind should have To lure me backward to its crowded den; Here would I live and die, and only crave The home I chose might also be my grave. |
|
