Poem by Robert Seymour Bridges

Shorter Poems. Book II. 8. Spring. Ode I

    INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY


      Again with pleasant green
    Has Spring renewed the wood,
    And where the bare trunks stood
    Are leafy arbours seen;
    And back on budding boughs
    Come birds, to court and pair,
    Whose rival amorous vows
    Amaze the scented air.

      The freshets are unbound,
    And leaping from the hill,
    Their mossy banks refill
    With streams of light and sound:
    And scattered down the meads,
    From hour to hour unfold
    A thousand buds and beads
    In stars and cups of gold.

      Now hear, and see, and note,
    The farms are all astir,
    And every labourer
    Has doffed his winter coat;
    And how with specks of white
    They dot the brown hillside,
    Or jaunt and sing outright
    As by their teams they stride.

      They sing to feel the Sun
    Regain his wanton strength;
    To know the year at length
    Rewards their labour done;
    To see the rootless stake
    They set bare in the ground,
    Burst into leaf, and shake
    Its grateful scent around.

      Ah now an evil lot
    Is his, who toils for gain,
    Where crowded chimneys stain
    The heavens his choice forgot;
    ’Tis on the blighted trees
    That deck his garden dim,
    And in the tainted breeze,
    That sweet spring comes to him.

      Far sooner I would choose
    The life of brutes that bask,
    Than set myself a task,
    Which inborn powers refuse:
    And rather far enjoy
    The body, than invent
    A duty, to destroy
    The ease which nature sent;

      And country life I praise,
    And lead, because I find
    The philosophic mind
    Can take no middle ways;
    She will not leave her love
    To mix with men, her art
    Is all to strive above
    The crowd, or stand apart.

      Thrice happy he, the rare
    Prometheus, who can play
    With hidden things, and lay
    New realms of nature bare;
    Whose venturous step has trod
    Hell underfoot, and won
    A crown from man and God
    For all that he has done.—

      That highest gift of all,
    Since crabbèd fate did flood
    My heart with sluggish blood,
    I look not mine to call;
    But, like a truant freed,
    Fly to the woods, and claim
    A pleasure for the deed
    Of my inglorious name:

      And am content, denied
    The best, in choosing right;
    For Nature can delight
    Fancies unoccupied
    With ecstasies so sweet
    As none can even guess,
    Who walk not with the feet
    Of joy in idleness.

      Then leave your joyless ways,
    My friend, my joys to see.
    The day you come shall be
    The choice of chosen days:
    You shall be lost, and learn
    New being, and forget
    The world, till your return
    Shall bring your first regret.

1. Shorter Poems. Book I. 17. Triolet (All women born are so perverse)
2. Shorter Poems. Book III. 1. “O My Vague Desires!”
3. Shorter Poems. Book IV. 25. “Say Who Is This with Silvered Hair”
4. Shorter Poems. Book III. 7. Indolence
5. Shorter Poems. Book II. 12. Morning Hymn

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