Come , let us leave this painted plain;
This waste of flowers that palls the eye:
The walks of Nature's wilder reign
Shall please in plainer majesty.
Through those fair scenes, where yet she owes
Superior charms to Brockman's art,
Where, crown'd with elegant repose,
He cherishes the social heart —
Through those fair scenes we'll wander wild,
And on yon pastur'd mountains rest;
Come, brother dear! come, Nature's child!
With all her simple virtues blest.
The sun far-seen on distant towers,
And clouding groves and peopled seas,
And ruins pale of princely bowers
On Beachborough's airy heights shall please.
Nor lifeless there the lonely scene;
The little labourer of the hive,
From flower to flower, from green to green,
Murmurs, and makes the wild alive.
See, on that flowret's velvet breast
How close the busy vagrant lies!
His thin-wrought plume, his downy breast,
The' ambrosial gold that swells his thighs!
Regardless, whilst we wander near,
Thrifty of time, his task he plies;
Or sees he no intruder near?
And rest in sleep his weary eyes?
Perhaps his fragrant load may bind
His limbs; — we'll set the captive free —
I sought the living Bee to find,
And found the picture of a Bee.
Attentive to our trifling selves,
From thence we plan the rule of all;
Thus Nature with the fabled elves
We rank, and these her sports we call.
Be far, my friends, from you, from me,
The' unhallow'd term, the thought profane,
That Life's majestic source may be
In idle Fancy's trifling vein.
Remember still, 'tis Nature's plahn
Religion in your love to find;
And know, for this, she first in man
Inspir'd the imitative mind.
As conscious that affection grows,
Pleas'd with the pencil's mimic power
That power with leading hand she shows,
And paints a Bee upon a flower.
Mark, how that rooted mandrake wears
His human feet, his human hands!
Oft, as his shapely form he tears,
Aghast the frighted ploughman stands.
See where, in yonder orient stone,
She seems e'en with herself at strife,
While fairer from her hand is shown
The pictur'd, than the native life.
Helvetia's rocks, Sabrina's waves,
Still many a shining pebble bear,
Where oft her studious hand engraves
The perfect form, and leaves it there.
O long, my Paxton, boast her art;
And long her laws of love fulfil:
To thee she gave her hand and heart,
To thee, her kindness and her skill!
This waste of flowers that palls the eye:
The walks of Nature's wilder reign
Shall please in plainer majesty.
Through those fair scenes, where yet she owes
Superior charms to Brockman's art,
Where, crown'd with elegant repose,
He cherishes the social heart —
Through those fair scenes we'll wander wild,
And on yon pastur'd mountains rest;
Come, brother dear! come, Nature's child!
With all her simple virtues blest.
The sun far-seen on distant towers,
And clouding groves and peopled seas,
And ruins pale of princely bowers
On Beachborough's airy heights shall please.
Nor lifeless there the lonely scene;
The little labourer of the hive,
From flower to flower, from green to green,
Murmurs, and makes the wild alive.
See, on that flowret's velvet breast
How close the busy vagrant lies!
His thin-wrought plume, his downy breast,
The' ambrosial gold that swells his thighs!
Regardless, whilst we wander near,
Thrifty of time, his task he plies;
Or sees he no intruder near?
And rest in sleep his weary eyes?
Perhaps his fragrant load may bind
His limbs; — we'll set the captive free —
I sought the living Bee to find,
And found the picture of a Bee.
Attentive to our trifling selves,
From thence we plan the rule of all;
Thus Nature with the fabled elves
We rank, and these her sports we call.
Be far, my friends, from you, from me,
The' unhallow'd term, the thought profane,
That Life's majestic source may be
In idle Fancy's trifling vein.
Remember still, 'tis Nature's plahn
Religion in your love to find;
And know, for this, she first in man
Inspir'd the imitative mind.
As conscious that affection grows,
Pleas'd with the pencil's mimic power
That power with leading hand she shows,
And paints a Bee upon a flower.
Mark, how that rooted mandrake wears
His human feet, his human hands!
Oft, as his shapely form he tears,
Aghast the frighted ploughman stands.
See where, in yonder orient stone,
She seems e'en with herself at strife,
While fairer from her hand is shown
The pictur'd, than the native life.
Helvetia's rocks, Sabrina's waves,
Still many a shining pebble bear,
Where oft her studious hand engraves
The perfect form, and leaves it there.
O long, my Paxton, boast her art;
And long her laws of love fulfil:
To thee she gave her hand and heart,
To thee, her kindness and her skill!