Pleasure (Brontë)

True pleasure breathes not city air, Nor in Art's temples dwells, In palaces and towers where The voice of Grandeur dwells.

No! Seek it where high Nature holds Her court 'mid stately groves, Where she her majesty unfolds, And in fresh beauty moves;

Where thousand birds of sweetest song, The wildly rushing storm And hundred streams which glide along, Her mighty concert form!

Go where the woods in beauty sleep Bathed in pale Luna's light, Or where among their branches sweep The hollow sounds of night.

Go where the warbling nightingale In gushes rich doth sing, Till all the lonely, quiet vale With melody doth ring.

Go, sit upon a mountain steep, And view the prospect round; The hills and vales, the valley's sweep, The far horizon bound.

Then view the wide sky overhead, The still, deep vault of blue, The sun which golden light doth shed, The clouds of pearly hue.

And as you gaze on this vast scene Your thoughts will journey far, Though hundred years should roll between On Time's swift-passing car.

To ages when the earth was young, When patriarchs, grey and old, The praises of their god oft sung, And oft his mercies told.

You see them with their beards of snow, Their robes of ample form, Their lives whose peaceful, gentle flow, Felt seldom passion's storm.

Then a calm, solemn pleasure steals Into your inmost mind; A quiet aura your spirit feels, A softened stillness kind.