When I behold a forest spread

Who’ll give ye then a sheltering shed,Or credit ye, when I am dead?Who’ll let ye by their fire sit,Although ye have a stock of wit,Already coin’d to pay for it?–I cannot tell: unless there beSome race of old humanityLeft, of the large heart and long hand,Alive, as noble Westmorland;Or gallant Newark; which brave twoMay fost’ring…

Where I have been, and still am, sad,In this dull Devonshire.Yet justly too I must confess,I ne’er invented suchEnnobled numbers for the press,Than where I loath’d so much.

Banish’d from thee I live;–ne’er to return,Unless thou giv’st my small remains an urn.

Of April, May, of June, and July flowers.I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes.I write of youth, of love, and have accessBy these to sing of cleanly wantonness.I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by pieceOf balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.I sing of Time’s trans-shifting; and…

For my locks, girls, let ’em beGrey or white, all’s one to me.

Thou that tam’st Tygers, and fierce storms (that rise)With thy soul-melting Lullabies:Fall down, down, down, from those thy chiming spheres,To charm our souls, as thou enchant’st our ears.