Classic Poem

Indulgent Pow'r, whom heretofore
To Wealth the blithe Contentment bore,
What time in tents on sunny plains
They dwelt with herds and flocks and swains,
And Health rang'd o'er the landscape fair,
And Peace and Poetry were there.

O fav'rite of th' untroubled mind!
O friend of all the studious kind!
For many a tranquil rural day,
For many a careless warbled lay,
To thee thy bard awakes this strain,
And may it not be sung in vain.

How oft in yonder rustic tow'r
With thee I've pass'd the vernal hour,
When open'd wide a pleasing scene
Of corn-clad field and meadow green,
And dusty road and winding rill,
And brown wood waving on the hill,
And spires that caught the morning beam,
And white sails gliding down the stream:
As all attentive these I view'd,
And many a pleasing thought pursued,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow'd,
Still I to thee that pleasure ow'd.

How oft in Summer's sultry reign,
When scorching Suns embrown'd the plain,
Where rough rocks form'd the prospect's bound,
And glossy Aspens trembled round,
With thee I've linger'd in the cool,
On mossy bank beside the pool;
Where thro' the limpid medium seen,
The bottom show'd a shining green:
As all attentive these I view'd,
And many a pleasing thought pursued,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow'd,
Still I to thee that pleasure ow'd.

How oft when ev'ning veil'd the sky,
And landscapes faded on the eye,
Have I with thee been wont to rove,
By hawthorn hedge or hazel grove;
Where heard among the rustling trees,
Sad Autumn's hollow voice could please,
And rising slow, the Moon's pale light
Gleam'd on the distant steeple's height:
As all attentive these I view'd,
And many a pleasing thought pursued,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow'd,
Still I to thee that pleasure ow'd.

O gentle Leisure! absent long,
I woo thee with this votive song;
While rushing from the stormy main,
Stern Winter desolates the plain;
And o'er yon Southern mountain's height,
The faint Sun sheds a transient light;
Thy presence deign where wealth displays
The shelt'ring room and chearful blaze;
There to my view while history brings,
The fall of States and fate of Kings;
Or mournful tales of private life,
Of hapless love or horrid strife;
The faithful Moralist shall show
That all is vanity below.

And should the Muse disclose once more
The wond'rous scenes she show'd before,
When on my mind in vision shone,
A land to vulgar thought unknown;
Beneath whose mild auspicious clime,
Bloom flow'rs that scorn the rage of time:
If there again 'tis mine to stray,
And bear some fragrant wreath away,
Design'd the beauteous brow to grace,
Of Freedom, friend of human race,
Or she, our guide to virtue giv'n,
Religion, progeny of Heav'n;
Then noise and care be far away,
But thou, O Leisure! near me stay;
With thee and Solitude, if blest,
Nought will I envy by the Great possest.