Wand'ring o'er the landscape still,
Till penfive Fancy has her fill;
Till o'er the fapphire-paven plain
Hefper leads his filver train.
But when the Sun, at noon-tide hour,
Sits throned in his higheft tow'r ;
When sportive Leifure lays him down,
Of fpringing flow'rs to weave a crown,
All on a deep dale's funny fide
With yellow crocus gaily dy'd;
Me heart-rejoicing Goddess lead
To the tann'd hay-cock in the mead :
To walk in rural mood among,
Of nymphs and fwains, the toiling throng;
Or, as the tepid odours breath,
The ruffet piles to lean beneath :
There while at eafe my limbs are thrown
On couch more foft than palace down;
To listen to the bufy found
Of mirth and toil that hums around;
To fee the team fhrill-tinkling pafs,
Alternate o'er the furrow'd grafs.
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 fummer-fhow'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' fweet-bri'r hedges, bath'd in dew,
Let me my wholsom path pursue;
While as I walk, from pearled bush,
The funny-sparkling drop I brush;
And all the landscape fair I view
Clad in robe of fresher hue:
And fo loud the black-bird fings
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 gliftering mead
A purer azure vault is fpread.
But ever against restless heat,
Lead me to the rock-arch'd feat,
O'er whofe dim mouth an ivyed oak
Hangs nodding from the low-brow'd rock;
Frequented by the nymph alone,
Whofe clear waves cleave the fmoothed stone;
Which, as they gush upon the ground,
Still fcatter mifty dews around:
A ruftic 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 fleeps
In hoar Lyceum's fhaggy steeps.
Me, Goddess, in fuch cavern lay,
While all without is fcorch'd in day;
Sore fighs the weary fwain, beneath
His leaflefs hawthorn on the heath ;
The drooping mower wishes eve,
In vain, of labour short reprieve !
Meantime, on Afric's glowing fands
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 flake his thirft, or limbs to lave!
And thinks, in every whisper low.
He hears a gufhing fountain flow.
Or bear me to yon fable wood,
Temple of fage Solitude!
There within a nook most dark,
Where none my mufing mood may
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 chofen fons he twin'd,
Well nurtur'd in Pierian lore,
On clear Iliffus' laureat fhore-
Till, high on airy neft reclin'd,
The raven wakes my tranced mind!
Or to the copfe, where hazels brown
With beech and tow'ring oak o'ergrown,
Some fecret winding path o'erfhade
By Fauns, and tripping Dryads made.
Or to yon abbey's mould'ring ifles,
Faft by whofe elder-crowned piles,
Many a melancholy yew
High-wreaths an awful avenue.
Or to the forreft-fringed vale
Where widow'd turtles love to wail,
Where cowflips 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 fome hermit's turf-rear'd house;
Fit place that penfive fage might chuse
On virtue's holy lore to muse.
But when mild Morn in faffron stole
First iffues from her eastern goal;
Then snatch me, crocus-crowned Queen,
To airy uplands clad in green :
Whence nature's univerfal face,
Illumin'd fmiles with new-born grace;
The misty streams that wind below,
With filver-fhining luftre glow;
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 funshine 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 blifs!
With thee converfing, all day long
I meditate delightful song.
These pedant cloyfters let me leave,
To meet the lovely Muse at eve,
(For Eve's the fister 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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