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Two paradises 't were in one,
How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new; Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run, And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we! How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers ?
Among the woods and tillage
That fringe the topmost downs,
Far off from seas and towns.
I heard within her street
And march of myriad feet.
For all she lies so lonely,
Far off from towns and seas,
The roofs beneath her trees:
And Death is veiled and dumb,
Hither, by singer's magic,
THE SCHOLAR GIPSY
“There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there; and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had formerly been of his acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among the gipsies; and he gave them an account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he went with were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others: that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.” — GLANVIL's Vanity of Dogmatizing, 1661.
Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill!
No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,
But when the fields are still,
And only the white sheep are sometimes seen
Here, where the reaper was at work of late –
His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse,
Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to
Here will I sit and wait,
The bleating of the folded flocks is borne,
With distant cries of reapers in the corn All the live murmur of a summer's day.
Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, And here till sun-down, shepherd, will I be!
Through the thick cośn the scarlet poppies peep, And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils
creep; And air-swept lindens yield Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed show
Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,
And bower me from the August sun with shade; And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers.
And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book-
The story of that Oxford scholar poor,
One summer morn forsook
And roam'd the world with that wild brother
hood, And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, But came to Oxford and his friends no more.
But once, years after, in the country-lanes,
Met him, and of his way of life inquir'd.
The workings of men's brains;
When fully learn'd, will to the world impart; But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill!”
This said, he left them, and return'd no more.
That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, In hat of antique shape, and cloak of gray,
The same the gipsies wore.
At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,
But, mid their drink and clatter, he would fly;
And I myself seem half to know thy looks,
Here, where the reaper was at work of! :. In this high field's dark corner, w'.
His coat, his basket, and his,', And in the sun all morning bin ?
Then here, at noon, comes !
Here will I sit and wait, While to my ear from uplands f:
The bleating of the folded floo
With distant cries of reapers i: All the live murmur of a summer
Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, i
Through the thick cośn the sca:
And air-swept lindens yie! Their scent, and rustle down their
Of bloom on the bent grass whi"
And bower me from the August
And near me on the grass lies Glany
The story of that Oxford schol...
One summer morn forsook