thro’ the vale,
And her wild music triumphs on the gale,
Oft with my book I muse from stile to stile; [Footnote 5]
Oft in my porch the listless noon beguile,
Framing loose numbers, till declining day
Thro’ the green trellis shoots a crimson ray;
Till the West-wind leads on the twilight hours,
And shakes the fragrant bells of closing flowers. 
   Nor boast, O Choisy! seat of soft delight,
The secret charm of thy voluptuous night. 
Vain is the blaze of wealth, the pomp of power! 
Lo, here, attendant on the shadowy hour,
Thy closet-supper, serv’d by hands unseen,
Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene, [m]
To hail our coming.  Not a step prophane
Dares, with rude sound, the cheerful rite restrain;
And, while the frugal banquet glows reveal’d,
Pure and unbought, [Footnote 6]—­the natives of my field;
While blushing fruits thro’ scatter’d leaves invite,
Still clad in bloom, and veil’d in azure light;—­
With wine, as rich in years as HORACE sings,
With water, clear as his own fountain flings,
The shifting side-board plays its humbler part,
Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot’s art. [n]
   Thus, in this calm recess, so richly fraught
With mental light, and luxury of thought,
My life steals on; (O could it blend with thine!)
Careless my course, yet not without design. 
So thro’ the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide,
The light raft dropping with the silent tide;
So, till the laughing scenes are lost in night,
The busy people wing their various flight,
Culling unnumber’d sweets from nameless flowers,
That scent the vineyard in its purple hours. 
   Rise, ere the watch-relieving clarions play,
Caught thro’ St. James’s groves at blush of day;
Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings
Thro’ trophied tombs of heroes and of kings. 
Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease, [Footnote 7]
Tho’ skill’d alike to dazzle and to please;
Tho’ each gay scene be search’d with anxious eye,
Nor thy shut door be pass’d without a sigh. 
   If, when this roof shall know thy friend no more,
Some, form’d like thee, should once, like thee, explore;
Invoke the lares of his lov’d retreat,
And his lone walks imprint with pilgrim-feet;
Then be it said, (as, vain of better days,
Some grey domestic prompts the partial praise)
“Unknown he liv’d, unenvied, not unblest;
Reason his guide, and Happiness his guest. 
In the clear mirror of his moral page,
We trace the manners of a purer age. 
His soul, with thirst of genuine glory fraught,
Scorn’d the false lustre of licentious thought. 
—­One fair asylum from the world he knew,
One chosen seat, that charms with various view! 
Who boasts of more (believe the serious strain)
Sighs for a home, and sighs, alas! in vain. 
Thro’ each he roves, the tenant of a day,
And, with the swallow, wings the year away!” [p]