But now, my faithful servant, Anthony, Just speak, and tell me what you think of me; When through the day amidst the gard'ning trade You bear the wat'ring pot, or wield the spade, And by your labour cause each part to yield, And make my garden like a fruitful field; What say you, when you see me musing there With looks intent as lost in anxious care, And sending forth my sentiments in words That oft intimidate the peaceful birds? Dost thou not then suppose me void of rest, Or think some demon agitates my breast? Yon villagers, you know, are wont to say Thy master's fam'd for writing many a lay, 'Mongst other matters too he's known to sing The glorious acts of our victorious king;[6] Whose martial fame resounds thro' every town; Unparallel'd in wisdom and renown. You know it well--and by this garden wall P'rhaps Mons and Namur[7] at this instant fall. What shouldst thou think if haply some should say This noted chronicler's employ'd to-day In writing something new--and thus his time Devotes to thee--to paint his thoughts in rhyme? My master, thou wouldst say, can ably teach, And often tells me more than parsons preach; But still, methinks, if he was forc'd to toil Like me each day--to cultivate the soil, To prune the trees, to keep the fences round; Reduce the rising to the level ground, Draw water from the fountains near at hand To cheer and fertilize the thirsty land, He would not trade in trifles such as these, And drive the peaceful linnets from the trees. Now, Anthony, I plainly see that you Suppose yourself the busiest of the two; But ah, methinks you'd tell a diff'rent tale If two whole days beyond the garden pale You were to leave the mattock and the spade And all at once take up the poet's trade: To give a manuscript a fairer face, And all the beauty of poetic grace; Or give the most offensive flower that blows Carnation's sweets, and colours of the rose; And change the homely language of the clown To suit the courtly readers of the town-- Just such a work, in fact, I mean to say, As well might please the critics of the day! Soon from this work returning tir'd and lean, More tann'd than though you'd twenty summers seen, The wonted gard'ning tools again you'd take Your long-accustom'd shovel and your rake; And then exclaiming, you would surely say, 'Twere better far to labour many a day Than e'er attempt to take such useless flights, And vainly strive to gain poetic heights, Impossible to reach--I might as soon Ascend at once and land upon the moon!