I seek thee where, with all his might, The joyous bird his rapture tells, Amidst the half-excluded light, That gilds the fox-glove's pendant bells; Where, cheerly up this bold hill's side The deep'ning groves triumphant climb; In groves Delight and Peace abide, And Wisdom marks the lapse of time. To hide me from the public eye, To keep the throne of Reason clear, Amidst fresh air to breathe or die, I took my staff and wander'd here. Suppressing every sigh that heaves, And coveting no wealth but thee, I nestle in the honied leaves, And hug my stolen liberty. O'er eastward uplands, gay or rude, Along to Erith's ivied spire, I start, with strength and hope renew'd, And cherish life's rekindling fire. Now measure vales with straining eyes, Now trace the church-yard's humble names: Or, climb brown heaths, abrupt that rise, And overlook the winding Thames. I love to mark the flow'ret's eye, To rest where pebbles form my bed, Where shapes and colours scatter'd lie In varying millions round my head. The soul rejoices when alone, And feels her glorious empire free; Sees GOD in every shining stone, And revels in variety. Ah me! perhaps within my sight, Deep in the smiling dales below, Gigantic talents, Heav'n's pure light, And all the rays of genius glow In some lone soul, whom no one sees With _power_ and _will_ to say "Arise," Or chase away the slow disease, And Want's foul picture from his eyes. A worthier man by far than I, With more of industry and fire, Shall see fair Virtue's meed pass by, Without one spark of fame expire! Bleed not my heart, it will be so. The throb of care was thine full long; Rise, like the Psalmist from his woe, And pour abroad the joyful song. Sweet Health, I seek thee! hither bring Thy balm that softens human ills; Come, on the long drawn clouds that fling Their shadows o'er the Surry-Hills. Yon green-topt hills, and far away Where late as now I freedom stole, And spent one dear delicious day On thy wild banks, romantic _Mole_. Aye, there's the scene![1] beyond the sweep Of London's congregated cloud, The dark-brow'd wood, the headlong steep, And valley-paths without a crowd! Here, Thames, I watch thy flowing tides, Thy thousand sails am proud to see; But where the _Mole_ all silent glides Dwells Peace--and Peace is wealth to me. [Footnote 1: Box-Hill, and the beautiful neighbourhood of Dorking, in Surry.] Of Cambrian mountains still I dream, And mouldering vestiges of war; By time-worn cliff or classic stream Would rove,--but prudence holds a bar. Conic then, O Health, I'll strive to bound My wishes to this airy stand; 'Tis not for _me_ to trace around The wonders of my native land.