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 sooner I would choose The life of brutes that bask, Than set myself a task, Which inborn powers refuse: And 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: 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.