The Rambles of an Idler 



All you gain, ambitious man, 

 Enters nothing in my plan. 

 Free to come, to go, to see; 

 Oh ! ever blessed liberty. 

 Heaven mine, un-reached by Hell, 

 My simple song is, ' All is well.' " 



Sage or simple be the thought, 

 Nonsense all the cat-bird taught, 

 Yet it pleased my v?illing ear 

 The cat-bird's earnest song to hear. 



How gladly would its methods try; 

 Day-long on these mosses lie; 

 Wander to some far-off glade; 

 Rest within a cooler shade; 

 Borne by breezes passing by. 

 These seething days of mid-July. 



"Fool to think it!" say you, friend 7 

 Where does all our labor tend? 

 Toil and sweat from youth to age. 

 No thought of ease the heart engage; 

 Then full rudely thrust aside. 

 For another, opened wide, 

 The door, the moment that you die 

 And look upon eternity; 

 Loiters in the house you build. 

 Gathers from the fields you tilled 

 All the harvest — this the way 

 Burdened mortals get their pay. 



94 



