To Health.

A poem by John Clare

Hail, soothing balm! Ye breezes blow,
Ransack the flower and blossom'd tree;
All, all your stolen gifts bestow,
For Health has granted all to me.

And may this blessing long be mine,
May I this favour still enjoy;
Then never shall my heart repine,
Nor yet its long continuance cloy.

And though I cannot boast, O Health!
Of aught beside, but only thee;
I would not change this bliss for wealth,
No, not for all the eye can see.

Wealth without thee is useless made,
Void of the smallest happy spark;
Yes, just as useless to give aid,
As mirrors set to light the dark.

Thy voice I hear, thy form I see,
In silence, echo, stream, or cloud;
Now, that strong voice belongs to thee
Which woods and hills repeat so loud.

The leaf, the flower, the spiry blade,
The hanging drops of pearly dew,
The russet heath, the woodland shade,
All, all can bring thee in my view.

With thee I seek the woodland shade
Beset in briery wilds among;
With thee I tread the tufted glade,
Transported by the woodlark's song.

With thee I wander where the sheep
In groups display a checquer'd train,
Where weedy waters winding creep;
Nor wilt thou fallow-clod disdain.

Then hail, sweet charm! Ye breezes blow,
Ransack the flower and blossom'd tree;
All, all your stolen gifts bestow,
For Health has granted all to me.

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