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, When talk I needed; and when warmed to pray, 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. THE AUTUMN ROBIN Sweet little bird in russet coat, The livery of the closing year! I love thy lonely plaintive note, And tiny whispering song to hear. While on the stile or garden seat, I sit to watch the falling leaves, The song thy little joys repeat, My loneliness relieves. And many are the lonely minds That hear, and welcome thee anew; Not Taste alone, but humble hinds, Delight to praise, and love thee too. The veriest clown, beside his cart, Turns from his song with many a smile, To see thee from the hedgerow start, To sing upon the stile. The shepherd on the fallen tree Drops down to listen to thy lay, And chides his dog beside his knee, Who barks, and frightens thee away. The hedger pauses, ere he knocks The stake down in the meadow-gap-- The boy, who every songster mocks, Forbears the gate to clap.