Page:Sir Walter Raleigh by Thoreau, Henry David,.djvu/124

 Two harmless lambs are butting one the other,

Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother;

And wounds are never found,

Save what the plough-share gives the ground.

Here are no false entrapping baits,

To hasten too too hasty fates;

Unless it be

The fond credulity

Of silly fish, which, worldling-like, still look

Upon the bait, but never on the hook:

Nor envy, unless among

The birds, for prize of their sweet song.

Go! let the diving negro seek

For gems hid in some forlorn creek;

We all pearls scorn,

Save what the dewy morn

Congeals upon each little spire of grass,

Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass;

And gold ne'er here appears,

Save what the yellow Ceres bears.

Blest, silent groves! O may ye be

For ever mirth's best nursery!

May pure contents

For ever pitch their tents

Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains,

And peace still slumber by these purling fountains!

Which we may every year

Find when we come a fishing here!