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I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains are bordered with moss,
Where the harebells and violets blow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweet-brier entwines it around:
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think she might like to retire
To the bower I have laboured to rear;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
But I hasten'd and planted it there.
Oh, how sudden the jessamine strove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves,
What strains of wild melody flow!

How the nightingales warble their loves
From the thickets of roses that blow:
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join
In a concert so soft and so clear,
As-she may not be fond to resign.

I have found out a gift for my fair;

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed ;But let me such plunder forbear,

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;

For he ne'er could be true, she averred,
Who would rob a poor bird of its young;
And I loved her the more when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

THERON; OR THE PRAISE OF RURAL LIFE.

I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that pity was due to a dove;
That it ever attended the bold,

And she called it the sister of Love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,

Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

BORN, 1771; DIED, 1832.

439

THERON; OR THE PRAISE OF RURAL LIFE. FAIR Spring o'er nature held her gentlest sway, Fair morn diffus'd around her brightest ray; Thin mists hung hovering on the distant trees, Or roll'd from off the fields before the breeze. The shepherd Theron watch'd his fleecy train, Beneath a broad oak, on the grassy plain: A heath's green wild lay pleasant to his view, With shrubs and field-flowers deck'd of varied hue: There hawthorns tall their silver bloom disclos'd, Here flexile broom's bright yellow interpos'd; There purple orchis, here pale daisies spread, And sweet May lilies richest odours shed. From many a copse and blossom'd orchard near, The voice of birds melodious charm'd the ear; There shrill the lark, and soft the linnet sung, And loud through air the throstle's music rung. The gentle swain the cheerful scene admir'd; The cheerful scene the song of joy inspir'd.

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Chant on!" he cried, "ye warblers on the spray!
Bleat on, ye flocks, that in the pastures play!
Low on, ye herds, that range the dewy vales!
Murmur, ye rills, and whisper soft, ye gales!
How blest my lot, in these sweet fields assign'd,
Where peace and leisure soothe the tuneful mind;
Where yet some pleasing vestiges remain
Of unperverted nature's golden reign,

When love and virtue rang'd Arcadian shades,
With undesigning youths and artless maids!
For us, though destin'd to a later time,
A less luxuriant soil, less genial clime;
For us the country boasts enough to charm
In the wild woodland, or the cultur'd farm.
Come, Cynthia, come! in town no longer stay;
From crowds, and noise, and folly, haste away!
The fields, the meads, the trees, are all in bloom,
The vernal showers awake a rich perfume,
Where Damon's mansion, by the glassy stream,
Rears its white walls that through green willows gleam,
Annual the neighbours hold their shearing-day,
And blithe youths come, and nymphs in neat array;
Those shear the sheep, upon the smooth turf laid,
In the broad plane's, or trembling poplar's shade:
These for their friends th' unexpected feast provide,
Beneath cool bowers along th' enclosure's side.
To view the toil, the glad repast to share,
Thy Delia, my Melania, shall be there;
Each, kind and faithful to her faithful swain,
Loves the calm pleasure of the pastoral plain.
Come, Cynthia, come! If towns and crowds invite,
And noise and folly promise high delight,

Soon the tir'd soul disgusted turns from these—
The rural prospect, only, long can please.”

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

BORN, 1766; DIED, 1823.

LAMBS AT PLAY.

SAY, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen
Spring's morning smiles and soul-enliv'ning green
Say, did you give the thrilling transport way :
Did your eye brighten, when young Lambs at play
Leaped o'er your path with animated pride,
Or gazed in merry clusters by your side?

THE IDLE SHEPHERD BOYS.

Ye who can smile to wisdom no disgrace-
At the arch meaning of a kitten's face;
If spotless innocence, and infant mirth,
Excites to praise or gives reflection birth;
In shades like these pursue your favourite joy,
Midst Nature's revels, sports that never cloy.
A few begin a short but vigorous race,
And Indolence, abash'd, soon flies the place:
Thus challeng'd forth, see thither, one by one,
From every side, assembling playmates run;
A thousand wily antics mark their stay,
A starting crowd, impatient of delay:
Like the fond dove from fearful prison freed
Each seems to say, "Come, let us try our speek;
Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong,
The green turf trembling as they bound along
Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb,
Where every molehill is a bed of thyme;
Then, panting, stop; yet scarcely can refrain;
A bird, a leaf, will set them off again:
Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow,
Scatt'ring the wild-brier roses into snow,
Their little limbs increasing efforts try;
Like the torn flower, the fair assemblage fly.
Ah, fallen rose! sad emblem of their doom;
Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
BORN, 1770; DIED, 1850.

THE IDLE SHEPHERD BOYS;
OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.*

THE valley rings with mirth and joy ;
Among the hills the echoes play

A never, never ending song,

To welcome in the May.

441A

* Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short, and for the most part, a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for waterfall

The magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain raven's youngling brood
Have left the mother and the nest;
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food;

Or through the glittering vapours dart,
In very wantonness of heart.

Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
Two boys are sitting in the sun;
Boys that have had no work to do,
Or work that now is done.

On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymn;
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail,
Their rusty hats they trim:
And thus, as happy as the day,
Those shepherds wear the time away.

Along the river's stony marge
The sand-lark chants a joyous song;
The thrush is busy in the wood,
And carols loud and strong.

A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
All newly born; both earth and sky
Keep jubilee; and more than all,
Those boys with their green coronal,
They never hear the cry,

That plaintive cry! which up the hill
Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.

Said Walter, leaping from the ground, "Down to the stump of yon old yew We'll for our whistles run a race.'

Away the shepherds flew.

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They leapt they ran-and when they came Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll,

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