Iv

O, nursed at happy distance from the cares Of a too-anxious world, mild pastoral Muse! That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears, And to her sister Clio's laurel wreath,[CL] Prefer'st a garland culled from purple heath, Or blooming thicket moist with morning dews; Was such bright Spectacle vouchsafed to me? And was it granted to the simple ear Of thy contented Votary Such melody to hear! Him rather suits it, side by side with thee, Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence, While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn-tree, To lie and listen--till o'er-drowsèd sense Sinks, hardly conscious of the influence-- To the soft murmur of the vagrant Bee. --A slender sound! yet hoary Time Doth to the Soul exalt it with the chime Of all his years;--a company Of ages coming, ages gone; (Nations from before them sweeping, Regions in destruction steeping,) But every awful note in unison With that faint utterance, which tells Of treasure sucked from buds and bells, For the pure keeping of those waxen cells; Where She--a statist prudent to confer Upon the common weal; a warrior bold, Radiant all over with unburnished gold, And armed with living spear for mortal fight; A cunning forager That spreads no waste; a social builder; one In whom all busy offices unite With all fine functions that afford delight-- Safe through the winter storm in quiet dwells!