Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, Farthest retires—an idol, at whose shrine Who oftenest sacrifice are favoured least. The love of Nature and the scene she draws Is Nature’s dictate. Strange, there should be found Who, self-imprisoned in their proud saloons, Renounce the odours of the open field For the unscented fictions of the loom; Who, satisfied with only pencilled scenes, Prefer to the performance of a God The inferior wonders of an artist’s hand. Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art, But Nature’s works far lovelier. I admire, None more admires, the painter’s magic skill, Who shows me that which I shall never see, Conveys a distant country into mine, And throws Italian light on English walls. But imitative strokes can do no more Than please the eye, sweet Nature every sense. The air salubrious of her lofty hills, The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, And music of her woods—no works of man May rival these; these all bespeak a power Peculiar, and exclusively her own. Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast; ’Tis free to all—’tis ev’ry day renewed, Who scorns it, starves deservedly at home. He does not scorn it, who, imprisoned long In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey To sallow sickness, which the vapours dank And clammy of his dark abode have bred Escapes at last to liberty and light; His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue, His eye relumines its extinguished fires, He walks, he leaps, he runs—is winged with joy, And riots in the sweets of every breeze. He does not scorn it, who has long endured A fever’s agonies, and fed on drugs. Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed With acrid salts; his very heart athirst To gaze at Nature in her green array. Upon the ship’s tall side he stands, possessed With visions prompted by intense desire; Fair fields appear below, such as he left Far distant, such as he would die to find— He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.