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Wand'ring o'er the landscape ftill,
Till pensive Fancy has her fill;
Till o'er the fapphire-paven plain
Hesper leads his filver train.

But when the Sun, at noon-tide hour,
Sits throned in his highest tow'r ;
When sportive Leisure lays him down,
Of springing flow'rs to weave a crown,
All on a deep dale's funny fide
With yellow crocus gaily dy'd ;
Me heart-rejoicing Goddefs lead
To the tann'd hay-cock in the mead :
To walk in rural mood among,
Of nymphs and swains, the toiling throng ;
Or, as the tepid odours breath,
The russet piles to lean beneath:
There while at ease my limbs are thrown
On couch more soft than palace down ;
To listen to the busy found
Of mirth and toil that hums around;
To see the team fhrill-tinkling pals,
Alternate o'er the furrow'd grass.
Meantime, retir'd from toil and heat,
A swain and blushing maid are met,
In tender talk to plight their vows,
Beneath an hawthorn's hoary boughs.

But ever, after summer-show'r, When the glad fun's returning pow'r,

With laughing beam has chac'd the storm,
And chear'd reviving nature's form ;.
Thro' sweet-bri'r hedges, bath'd in dew,
Let me my wholsom path pursue ;
While as I walk, from pearled bush,
The sunny-sparkling drop I brush;
And all the landscape fair I view
Clad in robe of fresher hue :
And so loud the black-bird sings
That far around the valley rings.
From shelter deep of arched rock
The shepherd drives his joyful flock;
From bow'ring beech the mower blythe
With new-born vigour grafps the fcythe ;
While o'er the level glistering mead
A purer azure vault. is fpread.

But ever against restless heat,
Lead me to the rock-arch'd seat,
O’er whose dim mouth an ivyed oak
Hangs nodding from the low-brow'd rock;
Frequented by the nymph alone,
Whose clear waves cleave the smoothed stone;
Which, as they gush upon the ground,
Still fcatter misty, dews around :
A rustic wild, grotesque alcove,
Its fides with mantling wood-bine wove ;
Cool as the cave where Clio dwells,
Whence Helicon's fresh fountain wells ;

Or noontide grott where Sylvan sleeps
In hoar Lycæum's shaggy steeps.

Me, Goddess, in such cavern lay,
While all without is scorch'd in day;
Sore fighs the weary swain, beneath
His leafless hawthorn on the heath ;
The drooping mower wishes eve,
In vain, of labour short reprieve !
Meantime, on Afric's glowing sands
Smote with keen heat the trav'ler stands :
Low finks his heart, while round his eye
Measures the boundless scenes that lie,
Ne'er yet by foot of mortal worn,
Where Thirst, wan pilgrim, walks forlorn.
How does he wish some cooling wave
To slake his thirst, or limbs to lave !
And thinks, in every whisper low.
He hears a gushing fountain flow.

Or bear me to yon fable wood, Temple of fage Solitude ! There within a nook most dark, Where none my musing mood may mark; Let me with many a whisper'd rite The Genius old of Greece invite, With that fair wreath my brows to bind, Which for his chosen fons he twin'd, Well nurtur'd in Pierian lore, On clear Iliffus' laureat shore-

Till, high on airy neft reclin'd,
The raven wakes my tranced mind!

Or to the copse, where hazels brown
With beech and tow'ring oak o'ergrown,
Some secret winding path o'ershade
By Fauns, and tripping Dryads made.

Or to yon abbey's mould'ring ifles,
Fast by whose elder-crowned piles,
Many a melancholy yew
High-wreaths an awful avenue.

Or to the forrest-fringed vale
Where widow'd turtles love to wail,
Where cowslips clad in mantle meek,
Nod their tall heads to breezes weak;
While o'er the solitary green,
Nor cott, nor wand'ring swain is seen :
There under shade of aged boughs
To find some hermit's turf-rear'd house ;
Fit place that pensive sage might chuse
On virtue's holy lore to muse.

But when mild Morn in saffron stole First issues from her eastern goal ; Then snatch me, crocus-crowned Queen, To airy uplands clad in green: Whence nature's universal face, Illumin'd smiles with new-born grace; The misty streams that wind below, With silver-Shining lustre glow;


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Tow'rs, groves, and villages appear
Invested all in radiance clear ;
Refreshful odors breathe around
From dews that whiten all the ground;
Echoing loud o'er hill and dale,
Glad birds the glistening sunshine hail ;
Content, indulging blissful hours,
Whistles o'er the fragrant flow'rs,
And cattle rouz'd to pasture new,
Shake jocund from their fides the dew.

'Tis thou alone, O summer mild,
Canft bid me carol wood-notes wild :
Whene'er I view thy blissful scenes,
Thy waving woods, embroider'd greens ;
What fires within my bosom wake,
How glows my mind the reed to take !
What scenes like thine the muse can call,
With whom 'tis youth and laughter all ;
With whom each field is paradise,
And all the globe a Bow'r of bliss !
With thee conversing, all day long
I meditate delightful fong.
These pedant cloysters let me leave,
To meet the lovely Muse at eve,
(For Eve's the sister of the Muse)
In valleys where mild whispers use :
While wand'ring on the brook's grey verge
I hear the stock-dove's dying dirge.

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