THE cottage curs at early pilgrim bark:

Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs; Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower.

E'EN now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, As on he wanders through the scenes of morn, Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow, Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne.

But who the melodies of morn can tell?
The wild brook babbling down the mountain-side ;
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;

The pipe of early shepherd dim descried.

In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean tide;

The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

Her legend when the Beldam 'gan impart,

Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,

Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart; Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful art.