quote · Legacy record

Slow wand’ring on the margin of the deep, I breathe the cheering gale of health once more; And see the billows gently dash the steep, That rears its bold head on the sandy shore. Fresh looks the landscape with the dews of dawn; A bluish mist swims o’er the softened grove; The wanton deer bound lightly o’er the lawn, And every copse resounds with notes of love. The village-clocks proclaim the passing hour; The tall spires glitter to the early sun; The ploughman, whistling, quits his low-roofed bow’r, And now his peaceful labour is begun. Yet not this ocean, cheered with many a sail, Nor all these rural sounds, and pastures fair, To solace worn disease could aught avail, Or from his bosom chase the clouds of care. The merry morn no rapture could impart, Nor converse sweet of friends his hours beguile; In vain could beauty warm his aching heart, Or on his cold-wan cheek awake a smile. Yet oft we slight thy worth, O, blessed Health! Poor mortals as we are, till thou art flown; And thy sweet joys, more dear than fame or wealth, Touch not our hearts, but pass unfelt, unknown. The joys, without whose aid whate’er of blest, Or great, or fair, the heavens to man ordain, Is dull and tasteless to the unthankful breast, Love loveless, youth old age, and pleasure pain.

Slow wand’ring on the margin of the deep, I breathe the cheering gale of health once more; And see the billows gently dash the steep, That rears its bold head on the sandy shore. Fresh looks the landscape with the dews of dawn; A bluish mist swims o’er the softened grove; The wanton deer bound lightly o’er the lawn, And every copse resounds with notes of love. The village-clocks proclaim the passing hour; The tall spires glitter to the early sun; The ploughman, whistling, quits his low-roofed bow’r, And now his peaceful labour is begun. Yet not this ocean, cheered with many a sail, Nor all these rural sounds, and pastures fair, To solace worn disease could aught avail, Or from his bosom chase the clouds of care. The merry morn no rapture could impart, Nor converse sweet of friends his hours beguile; In vain could beauty warm his aching heart, Or on his cold-wan cheek awake a smile. Yet oft we slight thy worth, O, blessed Health! Poor mortals as we are, till thou art flown; And thy sweet joys, more dear than fame or wealth, Touch not our hearts, but pass unfelt, unknown. The joys, without whose aid whate’er of blest, Or great, or fair, the heavens to man ordain, Is dull and tasteless to the unthankful breast, Love loveless, youth old age, and pleasure pain.

In print by 1888 AD · industrial

Recorded in a printed collection by this date; the original date of these words is still unknown.