Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart

To speak out what was in him, clear and strong,

Alike regardless of their smile or frown,

And quite determined not to be laughed down.

"Plato, anticipating the reviewers, From his republic banished without pity

The poets: in this little town of yours,

You put to death, by means of a committee,

The ballad-singers and the troubadours,

The street-musicians of the heavenly city,

The birds, who make sweet music for us all

In our dark hours, as David did for Saul.

"The thrush, that carols at the dawn of day

From the green steeples of the piny wood;

The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay,

Jargoning like a foreigner at his

food;

The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray,

Flooding with melody the neighborhood;

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song,

"You slay them all! and wherefore? For the gain

Of a scant handful, more or less, of wheat,

Or rye, or barley, or some other grain,

Scratched up at random by industrious feet

Searching for worm or weevil after rain,

Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet

As are the songs these uninvited guests

Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts.

For well thou know'st, 'tis not the extent

Of land makes life, but sweet content.

When now the cock, the ploughman's horne,

Calls forth the lily-wristed morne; Then to thy cornfields thou dost go, Which, though well soyl'd, yet thou dost know,

That the best compost for the lands Is the wise master's feet and hands: There at the plough thou find ́st thy teame,

With a hind whistling there to them; And cheer'st them up, by singing how

The kingdom's portion is the plough; This done, then to the enameled meads

Thou go'st, and as thy foot there treads,

Thou seest a present godlike power Imprinted in each herbe and flower; And smell'st the breath of great-eyed

kine,

Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox, And find'st their bellies there as full Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool;

And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,

A shepherd piping on a hill. For sports, for pageantrie, and playes,

Thou hast thy eves and holydayes; On which the young men and maids meet

To exercise their dancing feet, Tripping the comely country round, With daffodils and daisies crowned. Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,

Thy May-poles, too, with garlands grac't,

Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun ale, Thy shearing-feast, which never

faile,