Classic Poem

Come hither, ye who thirst;
Pure still the brook flows on;
Its waters are not cursed;
Clear from its rock of stone
It bubbles and it boils,
An everlasting rill,
Then eddies and recoils
And wimples clearer still.
Art troubled? then come hither,
And taste of peace for ever.

Art weary? here's the place
For weariness to rest,
These flowers are herbs of grace
To cure the aching breast;
Soft beds these mossy banks
Where dewdrops only weep,
Where Nature turns God thanks
And signs herself to sleep.
Art troubled with strife? come hither,
Here's peace and summer weather.

Come hither for pleasure who list--
Here are oak boughs for a shade;
These leaves they will hide from the mist
Ere the sun his broad disc has displayed.
Here is peace if thy bosom be troubled,
Here is rest--if thou'rt weary, sit down--
Here pleasure you'll find it is doubled.
For content is life's only crown.

Disciples of sorrow, come hither,
For no blasts my joys can wither.

Art sick of the naughty world?
There's many been sick before thee;
Then leave these young shoots with their tendrils curled
For the oaks that are mossy and hoary.
Art weary with beating the flood?
Here's a mossy bank--come sit down:
'Twas Nature that planted this wood,
Unknown to the sins of the town
Full of pride and contention--come hither,
We'll talk of our troubles together.

The world is all lost in commotion,
The blind lead the blind into strife;
Come hither, thou wreck of life's ocean,
Let solitude warm thee to life.
Be the pilgrim of love and the joy of its sorrow,
Be anything but the world's man:
The dark of to-day brings the sun of to-morrow,
Be proud that your joy here began.
Poor shipwreck of life, journey hither,
And we'll talk of life's troubles together.