I. Against.
Think not thou that fields and flowers,
Copses and Arcadian bowers,
Grow the crop of Peace :-
In this model life of ours
Worries seldom cease.

Think not Envy, Hatred, Malice
Seethe alone in town and palace;
For on Eden first,
Pour'd from evil's caldron-chalice,
Those hot geysers burst.

Though the scene be sweet and smiling,
And the silence most beguiling,
And so pure the air,-
Man, his paradise defiling,
Pours a poison there!

Look at yonder simple village,
With its church and peaceful tillage,
Seemingly so blest;
Mutual hate and mutual pillage
Truly tell the rest.

With the tongue's destroying sabre,
Neighbour battles against neighbour,
Whilst each other's glance
Tyranny and servile Labour
Scowling watch askance!

Wealth, well fawn'd on, and - well-hated;
Want,- with brutal malice mated;
And, to teach the twain,
Shallow priestcraft, self-inflated,
Dreary, dull, and vain!

Ay, Charles Lamb, the wise and witty,
Gentle lover of the city,
Sensibly he spoke,
When he dealt his pungent pity
To us country folk:

All for arson insecurely,
All for slander little purely,
Vext with petty strife,-
Let no silly mortal surely
Covet country life.

II. For.
Stop! malign not country pleasure;
For there is unminted treasure
In its quiet calm;
In its garden-loving leisure
Gilead's very balm!

In its duties, peace-bestowing,
In its beauties, overflowing
All the dewy ground,
In its mute religion, glowing
Everywhere around:

In its unobtrusive sweetness,
In its purity, and meetness
For contented minds;
And the beautiful completeness
Man in Nature finds.

Yes,- it is no fault of Nature's,
If the vice of fallen creatures
Spots her with a curse;
Man in towns hath viler features,
And his guilt is worse.

Troubles, cares, and self-denials,
These are no such special vials
Pour'd on fields and flowers;
But there always must be trials
In this world of ours.

Country life,- let us confess it,-
Man will little help to bless it,
Yet, for gladness there,
We may readily possess it
In its native air.

Rides and rambles, sports and farming,
Home, the heart for ever warming,
Books, and friends, and ease,-
Life must after all be charming,
Full of joys like these.

Yes, however little gaily,
And - for man, however frailly
Check'd with sin and strife,-
Wisdom rests contented daily
With a country life.