The Garden
How vainly men themselves amazeTo win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their uncessant labours seeCrowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow vergèd shadeDoes prudently their toils upbraid, While all flow'rs and all trees do closeTo weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you thenIn busy companies of men. Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seenSo am'rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name. Little, alas, they know, or heed, How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! Wheres'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race. Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow.And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarene, and curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness: The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find, Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas, Annihilating all that's madeTo a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide: There like a bird it sits, and sings, Then whets, and combs its silver wings;And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was the happy garden-state, While man there walked without a mate: After a place so pure, and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's shareTo wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in oneTo live in paradise alone. How well the skilful gardener drewOf flowers and herbs this dial new, Where from above the milder sunDoes through a fragrant zodiac run; And, as it works, the industrious beeComputes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and whilesome hoursBe reckoned but with herbs and flowers!
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