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. SPRING 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 sylvan court. For even in street and square Her tardy trees relent, As some far-travell’d scent Kindles the morning air; 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. Then what charm company Can give, know I,—if wine Go round, or throats combine To set dumb music free. Or deep in wintertide When winds without make moan, I love my own fireside Not least when most alone. Then oft I turn the page In which our country’s name, Spoiling the Greek of fame, Shall sound in every age: Or some Terentian play Renew, whose excellent Adjusted folds betray How once Menander went.