Ode XII: On Recovering From A Fit Of Sickness, In the Country
I.
Thy verdant scenes, O Goulder's hill,
Once more i seek, a languid guest:
With throbbing temples and with burden'd breast
Once more i climb thy steep aerial way.
O faithful cure of oft-returning ill,
Now call thy sprightly breezes round,
Dissolve this rigid cough profound,
And bid the springs of life with gentler movement play.
II.
How gladly 'mid the dews of dawn
My weary lungs thy healing gale,
The balmy west or the fresh north, inhale!
How gladly, while my musing footsteps rove
Round the cool orchard or the sunny lawn,
Awak'd i stop, and look to find
What shrub perfumes the pleasant wind,
Or what wild songster charms the Dryads of the grove.
III.
Now, ere the morning walk is done,
The distant voice of health i hear
Welcome as beauty's to the lover's ear.
“Droop not, nor doubt of my return,” she cries;
“Here will i, 'mid the radiant calm of noon,
“Meet thee beneath yon chesnut bower,
“And lenient on thy bosom pour
“That indolence divine which lulls the earth and skies.”
IV.
The goddess promis'd not in vain.
I found her at my favorite time.
Nor wish'd to breathe in any softer clime,
While (half-reclin'd, half-slumbering as i lay)
She hover'd o'er me. Then, among her train
Of nymphs and zephyrs, to my view
Thy gracious form appear'd anew,
Then first, o heavenly Muse, unseen for many a day.
V.
In that soft pomp the tuneful maid
Shone like the golden star of love.
I saw her hand in careless measures move;
I heard sweet preludes dancing on her lyre,
While my whole frame the sacred sound obey'd.
New sunshine o'er my fancy springs,
New colours clothe external things,
And the last glooms of pain and sickly plaint retire.
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poem by Mark Akenside
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