To Leisure.

Leisure! there are to whom thy wealth1
Seems but a source of sorrow;2
Oh! teach thy wistful bard, by stealth,3
Thy gifts—their grief to borrow.4
For thee I’ve panted ; thee I’ve prized5
Beyond their estimation:6
For thee I’ve gladly sacrificed7
Sleep, health, and recreation.8
“ The feast of reason, flow of soul,”9
To win thee I have barter’d;10
For thee have given up many a stroll11
Through Nature’s haunts uncharter’d.12
While some who own thee seem the while13
As if they sought to shun thee,14
Early and late I’ve woo’d thy smile,15
And yet have never won thee.16
The sunny heath, the shady grove,17
The ramble o’er and through them,18
Are joys a poet’s heart must love;19
But thou must guide him to them.20
What is a book when lacking thee?21
A fountain seal’d, or hidden;22
Even the lyre without thy key23
Is but a toy forbidden.24
For love of thee, and not itself,25
Life seems a thing to covet;26
For thee, alone, I pine for pelf,27
For thee could stoop to love it;28
Since wealth not only can supply29
What worldlings make a trade of,—30
Commanding thee, its dross can buy31
The stuff that life is made of.32