On Recovering from a Fit of Sickness; in the Country. 1758

Thy verdant scenes, O Goulder's Hill,Once more I seek, a languid guest:With throbbing temples and with burden'd breastOnce more I climb thy steep aerial way.O faithful cure of oft-returning ill,Now call thy sprightly breezes round,Dissolve this rigid cough profound,And bid the springs of life with gentler movement play.

How gladly, 'mid the dews of dawn,My weary lungs thy healing gale,The balmy west or the fresh north, inhale!How gladly, while my musing footsteps roveRound the cool orchard or the sunny lawn,Awaked I stop, and look to findWhat shrub perfumes the pleasant wind,Or what wild songster charms the Dryads of the grove!

Now, ere the morning walk is done,The distant voice of Health I hear,Welcome as beauty's to the lover's ear.'Droop not, nor doubt of my return,' she cries;'Here will I, 'mid the radiant calm of noon,Meet thee beneath yon chestnut bower,And lenient on thy bosom pourThat indolence divine which lulls the earth and skies.'

The goddess promised not in vain.I found her at my favourite time.Nor wish'd to breathe in any softer clime,While (half-reclined, half-slumbering as I lay)She hover'd o'er me. Then, among her trainOf Nymphs and Zephyrs, to my viewThy gracious form appear'd anew,Then first, O heavenly Muse, unseen for many a day.

In that soft pomp the tuneful maidShone like the golden star of love.I saw her hand in careless measures move;I heard sweet preludes dancing on her lyre,While my whole frame the sacred sound obey'd.New sunshine o'er my fancy springs,New colours clothe external things,And the last glooms of pain and sickly plaint retire.

O Goulder's Hill, by thee restoredOnce more to this enliven'd hand,My harp, which late resounded o'er the landThe voice of glory, solemn and severe,My Dorian harp shall now with mild accordTo thee her joyful tribute pay,And send a less ambitious layOf friendship and of love to greet thy master's ear.

For when within thy shady seatFirst from the sultry town he chose,And the tired senate's cares, his wish'd repose,Then wast thou mine; to me a happier homeFor social leisure: where my welcome feet,Estranged from all the entangling waysIn which the restless vulgar strays,Through Nature's simple paths with ancient Faith might roam.

And while around his sylvan sceneMy Dyson led the white-wing'd hours,Oft from the Athenian Academic bowersTheir sages came: oft heard our lingering walkThe Mantuan music warbling o'er the green:And oft did Tully's reverend shade,Though much for liberty afraid,With us of letter'd ease or virtuous glory talk.

But other guests were on their way,And reach'd ere long this favour'd grove;Even the celestial progeny of Jove,Bright Venus, with her all-subduing son,Whose golden shaft most willingly obeyThe best and wisest. As they came,Glad Hymen waved his genial flame,And sang their happy gifts, and praised their spotless throne.

I saw when through yon festive gateHe led along his chosen maid,And to my friend with smiles presenting said:--'Receive that fairest wealth which Heaven assign'dTo human fortune. Did thy lonely stateOne wish, one utmost hope, confess?Behold, she comes, to adorn and bless:Comes, worthy of thy heart, and equal to thy mind.'