Thrice happy he, the rare Prometheus, who can play With hidden things, and lay New realms of nature bare; Whose venturous step has trod Hell underfoot, and won

A crown from man and God
For all that he has done.—

That highest gift of all, Since crabbed fate did flood My heart with sluggish blood,

I look not mine to call

;

But, like a truant freed,
Fly to the woods, and claim
A pleasure for the deed

Of my inglorious name :

And am content, denied The best, in choosing right; For Nature can delight Fancies unoccupied

With ecstasies so sweet

As none can even guess,
Who walk not with the feet
Of joy in idleness.

Then leave your joyless ways, My friend, my joys to see.

The day you come shall be

The choice of chosen days:
You shall be lost, and learn
New being, and forget
The world, till your return
Shall bring your first regret.

9

SPRING

ODE II

REPLY

BEHOLD! the radiant Spring,

In splendour decked anew,

Down from her heaven of blue
Returns on sunlit wing:

The zephyrs of her train
In fleecy clouds disport,
And birds to greet her reign
Summon their silvan court.

And here in street and square
The prisoned trees contest
Her favour with the best,
To robe themselves full fair:
And forth their buds provoke,
Forgetting winter brown,

And all the mire and smoke
That wrapped the dingy town.

Now he that loves indeed
His pleasure must awake,
Lest any pleasure take

Its flight, and he not heed;
For of his few short years
Another now invites

His hungry soul, and cheers
His life with new delights.

And who loves Nature more Than he, whose painful art. Has taught and skilled his heart To read her skill and lore? Whose spirit leaps more high, Plucking the pale primrose, Than his whose feet must fly The pasture where it grows?

One long in city pent
Forgets, or must complain :
But think not I can stain
My heaven with discontent;
Nor wallow with that sad,
Backsliding herd, who cry

That Truth must make man bad,

And pleasure is a lie.

Rather while Reason lives
To mark me from the beast,
I'll teach her serve at least
To heal the wound she gives:
Nor need she strain her powers
Beyond a common flight,
To make the passing hours
Happy from morn till night.

Since health our toil rewards,
And strength is labour's prize,
I hate not, nor despise
The work my lot accords;
Nor fret with fears unkind

The tender joys, that bless
My hard-won peace of mind,
In hours of idleness,