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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=454960" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ode XIV: To The Honourable Charles Townshend: From The Country</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I.<br>Say, Townshend, what can London boast<br>To pay thee for the pleasures lost,<br>The health to-day resign'd,<br>When spring from this her favorite seat<br>Bade winter hasten his retreat,<br>And met the western wind?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II.<br>Oh knew'st thou how the balmy air,<br>The sun, the azure heavens prepare<br>To heal thy languid frame,<br>No more would noisy courts ingage;<br>In vain would lying faction's rage<br>Thy sacred leisure claim.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III.<br>Oft i look'd forth, and oft admir'd;<br>Till with the studious volume tir'd<br>I sought the open day;<br>And, sure, I cry'd, the rural gods<br>Expect me in their green abodes,<br>And chide my tardy lay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV.<br>But ah in vain my restless feet<br>Trac'd every silent shady seat<br>Which knew their forms of old:<br>Nor Naiad by her fountain laid,<br>Nor Wood-nymph tripping through her glade,<br>Did now their rites unfold:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V.<br>Whether to nurse some infant oak<br>They turn the slowly-tinkling brook<br>And catch the pearly showers,<br>Or brush the mildew from the woods,<br>Or paint with noontide beams the buds,<br>Or breathe on opening flowers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI.<br>Such rites, which they with spring renew,<br>The eyes of care can never view;<br>And care hath long been mine:<br>And hence offended with their guest,<br>Since grief of love my soul oppress'd,<br>They hide their toils divine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII.<br>But soon shall thy inlivening tongue<br>This heart, by dear affliction wrung,<br>With noble hope inspire:<br>Then will the sylvan powers again<br>Receive me in their genial train,<br>And listen to my lyre.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII.<br>Beneath yon Dryad's lonely shade<br>A rustic altar shall be paid,<br>Of turf with laurel fram'd:<br>And thou the inscription wilt approve;<br>'This for the peace which, lost by love,<br>By friendship was reclaim'd.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Mark+Akenside">Mark Akenside</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=454960" data-title="Ode XIV: To The Honourable Charles Townshend: From The Country de Mark Akenside" data-description="I.
Say, Townshend, what can London boast
To pay thee for the pleasures lost,
The health to-day resign'd,
When spring from this her favorite seat
Bade winter hasten his retreat,
And met the western wind?

II.
Oh knew'st thou how the balmy air,
The ..."></div>
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