Pleasant View Poem by Thomas Odiorne

Upon the plains of Jersey wide extended,
Where landscapes late my pleas'd attention drew,
Cooper's plantation with enchantments blended,
Lives in my mind, and forms a pleasant view.

On one side spreads an ancient wood majestic,
On one side rolls the Delaware sublime;
The mansion is a tranquil scene domestic,
And all around it a luxuriant clime.

Far, wav'd the harvest like a golden ocean,
High towering, nodded a fine field of corn;
With num'rous flocks the pastures were in motion,
And joyous Plenty fill'd with fruit her horn.

Enrob'd in elegance, with smiling faces,
By Art embellish'd, by Delight inspir'd,
Around the pleasure garden danc'd the Graces,
Approv'd of Fancy, and by Taste admir'd.

When on a verdant bank I took my station,
And, lingering, ponder'd on the river's pride;
The gorgeous west diffus'd a rich carnation,
And chang'd a silver to a golden tide.

Meanwhile the red-breast pour'd his raptur'd vesper,
Winding his notes to a melodious close;
He seem'd to serenade triumphant Hesper,
And lull creation to divine repose.

Along the margin of a meadow walking,
I met three wood-nymphs rambling o'er the scene;
Well-pleas'd, in sportive humour they were talking,
And nature brighten'd into sprightlier green.

The transient seraph of my soul was present;
Upon her charms with ravish'd look I hung;
Enjoy'd a fervour of emotion pleasant,
And caught the magic of her witching tongue.

'Twas not a passion of romantic story;
'Twas not a flame that beam'd a settled ray;
Like Zephyr, fondling o'er the sweets of Flora,
I stole a stock of bliss, and hied away.

Hast thou not paid to loveliness, devotion,
And caught enchantment from affection's smile?
Hast thou not felt in sympathy a motion,
That with a soothing power could griefs beguile?

Hast thou not mark'd the fervid, fond confession,
The strong desire with vivid hope combin'd,
And felt an ecstasy beyond expression,
A kindred mood, a paradise of mind?

Doubtless; and often so have I, transported,
While full of consciousness my being rose;
O! to the lass I love I'll be devoted,
With all the tenderness my bosom knows.