Where is this bower beside the silver Thames? O pool and flowery thickets, hear my vow! O trees of freshest foliage and straight stems, No sharer of my secret I allow: Lest ere I come the while Strange feet your shades defile; Or lest the burly oarsman turn his prow Within your guardian isle. [Illustration] SPRING INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY Again with pleasant green Has Spring renewed the wood, And where the bare trunks stood Are leafy arbours seen; And back on budding boughs Come birds, to court and pair, Whose rival amorous vows Amaze the scented air. The streams unbound anew Refill their mossy banks, The forward season pranks With flowers of varied hue: And scattered down the meads From hour to hour unfold A thousand buds and beads In stars and cups of gold. Now hear, and see, and note, The farms are all astir, And every labourer Has doffed his winter coat; And how with specks of white They dot the brown hillside, Or jaunt and sing outright As by their teams they stride. They sing to feel the Sun Regain his wanton strength; To know the year at length Rewards their labour done; To see the rootless stake They set bare in the ground, Burst into leaf, and shake Its grateful scent around. Ah now an evil lot Is his who toils for gain, Where crowded chimneys stain The heavens his choice forgot; ’Tis on the blighted trees That deck his garden dim, And in the tainted breeze That sweet spring comes to him. Far rather would I choose The grace of brutes that bask, Than in an eager task, My inborn honour lose: Would rather far enjoy The body, than invent A duty, to destroy The ease which nature sent; And country life I praise And lead, because I find The philosophic mind Can take no middle ways; She will not leave her love To mix with men, her art Is all to strive above The crowd, or stand apart. 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 crabbèd 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.