1 Off yonder verdant hillock laid, Where oaks and elms, a friendly shade, O'erlook the falling stream, O master of the Latin lyre, A while with thee will I retire From summer's noontide beam.
2 And, lo, within my lonely bower, The industrious bee from many a flower Collects her balmy dews: 'For me,' she sings, 'the gems are born, For me their silken robe adorn, Their fragrant breath diffuse.'
3 Sweet murmurer! may no rude storm This hospitable scene deform, Nor check thy gladsome toils; Still may the buds unsullied spring, Still showers and sunshine court thy wing To these ambrosial spoils.
4 Nor shall my Muse hereafter fail Her fellow labourer thee to hail; And lucky be the strains! For long ago did Nature frame Your seasons and your arts the same, Your pleasures and your pains.
5 Like thee, in lowly, sylvan scenes, On river banks and flowery greens, My Muse delighted plays; Nor through the desert of the air, Though swans or eagles triumph there, With fond ambition strays.
6 Nor where the boding raven chaunts, Nor near the owl's unhallow'd haunts Will she her cares employ; But flies from ruins and from tombs, From Superstition's horrid glooms, To day-light and to joy.
7 Nor will she tempt the barren waste; Nor deigns the lurking strength to taste Of any noxious thing; But leaves with scorn to Envy's use The insipid nightshade's baneful juice, The nettle's sordid sting.
8 From all which Nature fairest knows, The vernal blooms, the summer rose, She draws her blameless wealth; And, when the generous task is done, She consecrates a double boon, To Pleasure and to Health.
1 The radiant ruler of the year At length his wintry goal attains; Soon to reverse the long career, And northward bend his steady reins. Now, piercing half Potosi's height, Prone rush the fiery floods of light Ripening the mountain's silver stores: While, in some cavern's horrid shade, The panting Indian hides his head, And oft the approach of eve implores.
2 But lo, on this deserted coast, How pale the sun! how thick the air! Mustering his storms, a sordid host, Lo, Winter desolates the year. The fields resign their latest bloom; No more the breezes waft perfume, No more the streams in music roll: But snows fall dark, or rains resound; And, while great Nature mourns around, Her griefs infect the human soul.