Thursday, 31 December 2009

Ambrosial gardens, in which Art supplies, The fervour and the force of Indian skies

Why weeps the muse for England? What appears
In England's case, to move the muse to tears ?
From side to side of her delightful isle,
Is she not clothed with a perpetual smile ?
Can Nature add a charm, or Art confer
A new-found luxury not seen in her ?
Where, under heaven, is pleasure more pursued,
Or where does cold reflection less intrude ?
Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn,
Poured out from Plenty's overflowing horn ;
Ambrosial gardens, in which Art supplies
Her peaceful shores, where busy Commerce waits
To pour his golden tide through all her gates;
Whom fiery suns, that scorch the russet spice
Of eastern groves, and oceans floored with ice,
Forbid in vain to push his daring way
To darker climes, or climes of brighter day;
Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll,
From the world's girdle to the frozen pole;
The chariots bounding in her wheel-worn streets,
Her vaults below, where every vintage meets;
Her theatres, her revels, and her sports;
The scenes to which not youth alone resorts,
But age, in spite of weakness and of pain,
Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again—
All speak her happy: let the muse look round
From East to West, no sorrow can be found:
Or only what, in cottages confined,
Sighs unregarded to the passing wind.

William Cowper Expostulation

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