Essay 3

“Those joys are lodg’d beyond the reach of fate.”

“The thoughts of which can never from my heart?”

“What though the radiance which was once so brightBe now for ever vanish'd from my sight,Though nothing can bring back the hourOf glory in the grass, of splendour in the flow’r”—

“And see how dark the backward stream,A little moment past so smiling”—

“Calm contemplation and majestic pains.”

“Oh God! methinks it were a happy lifeTo be no better than a homely swain,To sit upon a hill as I do now,To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,Thereby to see the minutes how they run;How many make the hour full complete,How many hours bring about the day,How many days will finish up the year,How many years a mortal man may live:When this is known, then to divide the times;So many hours must I tend my flock,So many hours must I take my rest,So many hours must I contemplate,So many hours must I sport myself;So many days my ewes have been with young,So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean,So many months ere I shall shear the fleece:So many minutes, hours, weeks, months, and yearsPast over to the end they were created,Would bring grey hairs unto a quiet grave.