Not Love，not War，nor the tumultuous swell
Of civil conflict，nor the wrecks of change，
Nor Duty 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 range➁，
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 melancholy➂；
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.