The Shepherd's Garden :: :: University of Virginia Library

Whilst through pride of false renown
Blustering man struts up and down,
And with thoughts of state grows big,
Thou dost perch upon thy twig,
And the joyful season greet
With a note so very sweet
That the woods and streams rejoice
Ravished by thy mellow voice:
Such a music in it lies
Drawn through rarest melodies.

Happy he who loves to listen
When the dews about him glisten,
To the gurgling from the brake
That blithe heart of thine doth make,
Striking those deep chords that lie
Bound in the soul of harmony—
Rapturous breathings softly blown,
Circling the high-lifted throne,
Where great Jove doth hush his thunder,
Sitting in a silent wonder!

I would have, if that the having
Were but fruited in the craving,

And the warbling of thy bill
Such a grosser mean might fill,
A lute of amber, golden strings,
Thus to chime thy carollings;
All thy sweetnesses rehearse,
Melt thy music in my verse,
And those happy thoughts make clear
Wherewith birds delighted are.

I would tell of twilight woods,
And those sylvan solitudes
Muffled from the noonday beam,
Where the lazy lilied stream
Kisses, on its tangled banks,
Blue forget-me-nots in ranks,
And the meadow-sweet breathes out
Almond odours round about:
Sometimes from the distant meads,
Shepherds piping on their reeds.

I would speak of Summer laid
Underneath some elm-tree's shade,
Fields and woods around him lying,
Fleecy clouds above him flying,
When his song is lightly borne
Over fields of waving corn;

Sun and shadow on the copse
Playing with the loose-strife tops:
Not a wild rose blossoming
Dares but dance when he doth sing.

I would follow thee to where
Garden odours fill the air;
Poplars rising straight and tall;
Apples ripening o'er the wall:
Flutter with the butterflies,
Pick the ripest strawberries,
At the grottoed fountain sip,
Where long fronds of hart's-tongue dip,
Then the rural feast repay
With my longest loudest lay.

With thee I would hold my course
To the river's lonely source,
Where a barren valley wide
Slopes its rocks on either side,
Splintered ash and pine-tree dun
Basking in the glaring sun,
Whilst the shepherd lad doth keep
Watch amongst the scattered sheep;
Only one white cloud and still
Sleeping on the topmost hill.

If this may not wholly be,
Yet, sweet bird, I'll sing with thee
Such a song the brooklet near
And the wind shall pause to hear:
All our joys in yonder dell
Each to other we will tell;
Thus to make a dainty verse
Carping wits may not asperse;
With such pauses as may feather
Loftier flights of song together.