“NOT LOVE, NOT WAR, NOR THE TUMULTUOUS SWELL”

Not Love, notWar, nor the tumultuous swell

Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,

NorDuty struggling with afflictions strange —

Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;

But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,

There also is the Muse not loth to range,

Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange,

Skyward ascending from a woody dell.

Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour,

And sage content, and placid melancholy;

She loves to gaze upon a crystal river —

Diaphanous because it travels slowly;

Soft is the music that would charm for ever;

The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.