But lift the eye, And hail the abode of rural ease.

The man Walks forth, from yonder antique hall, that looks The mistress of the scene; its turrets gleam Amid the trees, and cheerful smoke is seen, As if no spectred shape (though most retired The spot) there ever wandered, stoled in white, Along the midnight chambers; but quaint Mab Her tiny revels led, till the rare dawn Peeped out, and chanticleer his shrill alarm 140 Beneath the window rang, then, with a wink, The shadowy rout have vanished! As the morn Jocund ascends, how lovely is the view To him who owns the fair domain! The friend Of his still hours is near, to whom he vowed His truth; her eyes reflect his bliss; his heart Beats high with joy; his little children play, Pleased, in his pathway; one the scattered flowers Straggling collects, the other spreads its arms, 150 In speechless blandishment, upon the neck Of its caressing nurse.
Still let us gaze, And image every form of heartfelt joy Which scenes like these bestow, that charm the sight, Yet soothe the spirit.

All is quiet here, Yet cheerful as the green sea, when it shines In some still bay, shines in its loneliness Beneath the breeze, that moves, and hardly moves, The placid surface.

160 On the balustrade Of the old bridge, that o'er the moat is thrown, The fisher with his angle leans intent, And turns, from the bright pomp of spreading plains, To watch the nimble fry, that glancing oft Beneath the gray arch shoot! Oh, happiest he Who steals through life, untroubled as unseen! The distant city, with its crowded spires, That dimly shines upon his view, awakes No thought but that of pleasure more composed, 170 As the winds whisper him to sounder sleep.
He leans upon the faithful arm of her For whom his youthful heart beat, fondly beat, When life was new: time steals away, yet health And exercise are his; and in these shades, Though sometimes he has mourned a proud world's wrong, He feels an independence that all cares Breasts with a carol of content; he hears The green leaves of his old paternal trees Make music, soothing as they stir: the elm, 180 And poplar with its silvery trunk, that shades The green sward of the bank before his porch, Are to him as companions;--whilst he turns With more endearment to the living smile Of those his infants, who, when he is dead, Shall hear the music of the self-same trees Waving, till years roll on, and their gray hairs Go to the dust in peace.
Away, sad thought! Lo! where the morning light, through the dark wood, 190 Upon the window-pane is flung like fire, Hail, Life and Hope; and thou, great work of art, That 'mid this populous and busy swarm Of men dost smile serene, as with the hues Of fairest, grandest Nature; may'st thou speak Not vainly of the endearments and best joys That Nature yields.

The manliest heart that swells With honest English feelings,--while the eye, Saddened, but not cast down, beholds far off The darkness of the onward rolling storm,-- 200 Charmed for a moment by this mantling view, Its anxious tumults shall suspend: and such, The pensive patriot shall exclaim, thy scenes, My own beloved country, such the abode Of rural peace! and while the soul has warmth, And voice has energy, the brave arm strength, England, thou shalt not fall! The day shall come, Yes, and now is, that thou shalt lift thyself; And woe to him who sets upon thy shores His hostile foot! Proud victor though he be, 210 His bloody march shall never soil a flower That hangs its sweet head, in the morning dew, On thy green village banks! His mustered hosts Shall be rolled back in thousands, and the surge Bury them! Then, when peace illumes once more, My country, thy green nooks and inmost vales, It will be sweet amidst the forest glens To stray, and think upon the distant storm That howled, but injured not! At thoughts like these, 220 What heart, what English heart, but shall beat high! Meantime, its keen flash passed, thine eye intent, Beaumont, shall trace the master-strokes of art, And view the assemblage of the finished piece, As with his skill who formed it: ruder views, Savage, with solitary pines, hung high Amid the broken crags (where scowling wait The fierce banditti), stern Salvator's hand Shall aptly shade: o'er Poussin's clustering domes, With ampler umbrage, the black woods shall hang, 230 Beneath whose waving gloom the sudden flash Of broken light upon the brawling stream Is flung below.
Aerial Claude shall paint The gray fane peering o'er the summer woods, The azure lake below, or distant seas, And sails, in the pellucid atmosphere, Soft gleaming to the morn.