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Wandering through the landscape still,
Till Melancholy has her fill.
And on each moss-wove border damp
The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp.

But when the Sun, at noon-tide hour, Sits throned in his highest tow'r; Me, heart-rejoicing Goddess, lead To the tan'd haycock in the mead: To mix in rural mood among The nymphs and swains, a busy throng ; Or, as the tepid odours breathe, The russet piles to lean beneath : There as my listless limbs are thrown On couch more soft than palace down; I listen to the busy sound Of mirth and toil, that hums around; And see the team shrill-tinkling pass, Alternate o'er the furrow'd

grass.

But ever, after summer-show'r, When the bright sun's returning pow'r, With laughing beam has chas'd the storm, And cheer'd reviving Nature's form; By sweet-brier hedges, bath'd in dew, Let me my wholesome path pursue;

There issuing forth, the frequent snail
Wears the dank way with slimy trail,
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 blackbird sings,
That far and near the valley rings.
From shelter deep of shaggy rock
The shepherd drives his joyful flock;
From bowering beech the mower blithe
With new-born vigour grasps the scythe ;
While o'er the smooth unbounded meads
His last faint gleam the rainbow spreads.

But ever against restless heat, Bear me to the rock-arch'd seat, O’er whose dim mouth an ivied oak, Hangs nodding from the low-brow'd rock; Haunted by that chaste nymph alone, Whose waters cleave the smoothed stone ; Which, as they gush upon the ground, Still scatter misty dews around : A rustic, wild, grotesque alcove, Its side with mantling woodbines wove; Cool as the cave where Clio dwells, Whence Helicon's fresh fountain wells;

Or noon-tide grot where Silvan sleeps
On hoar Lycæum's piny steeps.

Me, Goddess, in such cavern lay, While all without is scorch'd in day: Sore sighs the weary swain beneath His withering hawthorn on the heath; The drooping hedger wishes eve, In vain, of labour short reprieve! Meantime, on Afric's glowing sands, Smote with keen heat, the traveller stands; Low sinks his heart, while round his eye Measures the scenes that boundless 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 lips, or limbs to lave! And thinks, in every whisper low, He hears a bursting fountain flow.

Or bear me to yon antique wood,
Dim temple of sage Solitude!
There within a nook most dark,
Where none my musing mood

may

mark, Let me in many a whisper'd rite The genius old of Greece invite,

With that fair wreath my brows to bind,
Which for his chosen imps he twin'd,
Well nurtur'd in Pierian lore,
On clear Ilissus' laureate shore.
Till high on waving nest reclin'd,
The raven wakes my tranced mind! .
Or to the forest-fringed vale,
Where widow'd turtles love to wail,
Where cowslips, clad in mantle meek,
Nod their tall heads to breezes weak:
In the midst, with sedges gray
Crown'd, a scant rivulet winds its way,
And trembling through the weedy wreaths,
Around an oozy freshness breathes.
O'er the solitary green,
Nor cot, nor loitering hind is seen ;
Nor aught alarms the mute repose,
Save that by fits an heifer lows:
A scene might tempt some peaceful sage
To rear him a lone hermitage ;
Fit place his pensive eld might choose,
On virtue's holy lore to muse:

Yet still the sultry noon t appease, Some more romantic scene might please ; Or fairy bank, or magic lawn, By Spenser's lavish pencil drawn :

Or bow'r in Vallombrosa's shade,
By legendary pens portray'd.
Haste, let me shroud from painful light,
On that hoar hill's aerial height,
In solemn state, where waving wide,
Thick pines with darkening umbrage hide
The rugged vaults, and riven towers
Of that proud castle's painted bowers,
Whence Hardyknute, a baron bold,
In Scotland's martial days of old,
Descended from the stately feast,
Begirt with many a warrior guest,
To quell the pride of Norway's king,
With quivering lance and twanging string.
As through the caverns dim I wind,
Might I that holy legend find,
By fairies spelt in mystic rhymes,
To teach enquiring later times,
What open force, or secret guile,
Dash'd into dust the solemn pile.

But when mild Morn in saffron stole,
First issues from her eastern goal,
Let not my due feet fail to climb
Some breezy summit's brow sublime,
Whence Nature's universal face
Illumin'd smiles with new-born grace;

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