Sithence no fairy lights, no quick'ning ray,
Nor stir of pulse, nor objects to entice
Abroad the spirits; but the cloyster'd heart
Sits squat at home, like pagod in a nitch
Obscure, or grandees with nod-watching eye,
And folded arms, in presence of the throne,
Turk, or Indostan. — Cities, forums, courts
And prating sanhedrims, and drumming wars,
Affect no more than stories told to bed
Lethargic, which at intervals the sick
Hears and forgets, and wakes to doze again.
Instead of converse and variety,
The same trite round, the same stale silent scene:
Such are thy comforts, blessed Solitude!
But Innocence is there, but Peace all kind,
And simple Quiet with her downy couch,
Meads lowing, tune of birds, and lapse of streams,
And Saunter, with a book, and warbling Muse,
In praise of hawthorns. — Life's whole business this!
Is it to bask i' th' sun, if so, a snail
Were happy crawling on a southern wall.