我父亲给我留了一块园地，但它荒无人烟，也是个花园，连一棵树也没有，比牧场还要荒芜;然而邻居们来拜访的时候，他们说，这不是坏地，而是好地，林中万物的萌芽都生长在这里。啊，我要是生活在古老的安菲翁时代，那时歌曲是伟大的，我把小提琴带到门口，也不在乎种子和接穗!但愿我活在歌唱得美妙，树腿柔软的时代，把我的小提琴带到门口，在树林里拉着!据说他有一副优美的舌头，如此快乐的语调，无论他坐下来唱歌，他都会留下一个小种植园;每当他在孤寂的小树林里竖起他那凄凉的风笛时，痛风的橡树开始动了起来，挣扎着变成了角笛。山搅动着它浓密的王冠，正如传统所说，年轻的灰烬与年轻的山毛榉调情;藤蔓和常青藤的花圈随着他的韵律向前跑去，下面的山谷里长满了小灌木林。菩提树打破了她的行列，撕破了捆绑她的梧桐花圈，在中间嗡嗡作响!她走了，她所有的蜜蜂都跟在她后面:白杨树整齐地排列着，柏树在其间漫步，杨柳在河边一簇簇地奔驰。来自海浪的湿鞋，来自紫杉，一个阴暗的群体; Each pluck'd his one foot from the grave, Poussetting with a sloe-tree: Old elms came breaking from the vine, The vine stream'd out to follow, And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine From many a cloudy hollow. And wasn't it a sight to see, When, ere his song was ended, Like some great landslip, tree by tree, The country-side descended; And shepherds from the mountain-eaves Look'd down, half-pleased, half-frighten'd, As dash'd about the drunken leaves The random sunshine lighten'd! Oh, nature first was fresh to men, And wanton without measure; So youthful and so flexile then, You moved her at your pleasure. Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs' And make her dance attendance; Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, And scirrhous roots and tendons. 'Tis vain ! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle; The very sparrows in the hedge Scarce answer to my whistle; 'Or at the most, when three-parts-sick With strumming and with scraping, A jackass heehaws from the rick, The passive oxen gaping. But what is that I hear ? a sound Like sleepy counsel pleading; O Lord !--'tis in my neighbour's ground, The modern Muses reading. They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening thro' there, And Methods of transplanting trees To look as if they grew there. The wither'd Misses! how they prose O'er books of travell'd seamen, And show you slips of all that grows From England to Van Diemen. They read in arbours clipt and cut, And alleys, faded places, By squares of tropic summer shut And warm'd in crystal cases. But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, Are neither green nor sappy; Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, The spindlings look unhappy. Better to me the meanest weed That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain. And I must work thro' months of toil, And years of cultivation, Upon my proper patch of soil To grow my own plantation. I'll take the showers as they fall, I will not vex my bosom: Enough if at the end of all A little garden blossom. .