The arching boughs unite between The columns of the temple green, And underneath the winged quires Echo about their tuned fires. The nightingale does here make choice To sing the trials of her voice; Low shrubs she sits in, and adorns With music high the squatted thorns; But highest oaks stoop down to hear, And listening elders prick the ear; The thorn, lest it should hurt her, draws Within the skin its shrunken claws. But I have for my music found A sadder, yet more pleasing sound; The stock-doves, whose fair necks are graced With nuptial rings, their ensigns chaste, Yet always, for some cause unknown, Sad pair, unto the elms they moan. O why should such a couple mourn, That in so equal flames do burn! Then as I careless on the bed Of gelid strawberries do tread, And through the hazels thick espy The hatching throstle's shining eye, The heron, from the ash's top, The eldest of its young lets drop, As if it stork-like did pretend That tribute to its lord to send. Thus I, easy philosopher, Among the birds and trees confer; And little now to make me, wants, Or of the fowls, or of the plants; Give me but wings as they, and I Straight floating on the air shall fly; Or turn me but, and you shall see I was but an inverted tree. Already I begin to call In their most learn'd original, And where I language want, my signs The bird upon the bough divines, And more attentive there doth sit Than if she were with lime-twigs knit, No leaf does tremble in the wind, Which I returning cannot find. One of these scattered Sibyls' leaves Strange prophecies my fancy weaves, And in one history consumes, Like Mexique paintings, all the plumes; What Rome, Greece, Palestine e'er said, I in this light mosaic read. Thrice happy he, who, not mistook, Hath read in Nature's mystic book! And see how chance's better wit Could with a mask my studies hit! The oak-leaves me embroider all, Between which caterpillars crawl; And ivy, with familiar trails, Me licks and clasps, and curls and hales. Under this Attic cope I move, Like some great prelate of the grove; Then, languishing with ease, I toss On pallets swoln of velvet moss, While the wind, cooling through the boughs, Flatters with air my panting brows. Thanks for your rest, ye mossy banks, And unto you, cool zephyrs, thanks, Who, as my hair, my thoughts too shed, And winnow from the chaff my head!