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Who fill'd with unexhausted fire,
wood-man loves ; As homeward bent to kiss his prattling babes, Jocund he whistles thro' the twilight groves.
IV. To the deep wood the clamourous rooks repair, Light skims the swallow o'er the watry scene; And from the sheep-cote, and fresh furrow'd-field, Stout ploughmen meet, to wrestle on the Green.
F ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales, O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O’erhang his wavy bed: Nor air is huth'd, fave where the weak-ey'd bat, With short shrill friek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
Now teach me, Maid compos'd,
Whose numbers stealing thro' thy dark'ning vale, May not unseemly with it's stillness suit,
As mufing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return!
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in flow'rs the day, And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with
sedge, And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still,
The Pensive Pleasures sweet
Prepare thy shadowy car. Then lead, calm Vot'ress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile,
Or up-land fallows grey
Reflect it's last cool gleam. But when chill bluft'ring winds, or driving rain, Forbid my willing feet; be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's fide,
Views wilds, and swelling floods,
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil. While spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresies, meekest Eve!