Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown
Fanning away the dandelion's down;
Than the light music of her nimble toes
Patting against the sorrel as she goes.
How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught
Playing in all her innocence of thought;
O let me lead her gently o'er the brook,
Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look;
O let me for one moment touch her wrist;
Let me one moment to her breathing list;
And as she leaves me, may she often turn
Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburn.
What next? (a tuft of evening primroses,
O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
But that 'tis ever startled by the leap
Of buds into ripe flowers; or by (the flitting
Of divers moths, that aye their rest are quitting;)
Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
Coming into the blue with all her light.)
O Maker of sweet poets! dear delight
Of this fair world and all its gentle livers;
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
Thee must I praise above all other glories
That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
For what has made the sage or poet write
But the fair Paradise of Nature's light?
In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
We see the waving of the mountain pine;
And when a tale is beautifully staid,
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade :
When it is moving on luxurious wings,
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings :
Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;
O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet-brier
And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;
While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles
Charms us at once away from all our troubles:
So that we feel uplifted from the world,
Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and curled.
HERE happy would they stray in summer hours,
To spy the birds in their green leafy bowers,
And learn their various voices; to delight
In the gay tints, and ever-bickering flight
Of dragon-flies upon the river's brim ;)
Or swift king-fisher in his gaudy trim
Come skimming past, with a shrill, sudden cry ;)
Or on the river's sunny marge to lie,
And count the insects that meandering trace,
In some smooth nook, their circuits on its face.
Now gravely ponder on the frothy cells
Of insects, hung on flowery pinnacles;
Now, wading the deep grass, exulting trace
The corn-crake's curious voice from place to place ;> Now here now there-now distant-now at handNow hushed, just where in wondering mirth they
To lie abroad on Nature's lonely breast,
Amidst the music of a summer's sky,
Where tall, dark pines the northern bank invest
Of a still lake; and (see the long pikes lie
Basking upon the shallows;) with dark crest,
And threatening pomp, the swan go sailing by;)
And many a wild fowl on its breast that shone,
Flickering like liquid silver, in the joyous sun; }
The duck, deep poring with her downward head,
Like a buoy floating on the ocean wave
The Spanish goose, like drops of crystal, shed
The water o'er him, his rich plumes to lave ;)
The beautiful widgeon, springing upward, spread
His clapping wings (the heron, stalking grave
Into the stream; the coot and water-hen
Vanish into the flood, then, far off, rise again:
Such were their joys!
SHEPHERD AND FLOCK.
AROUND the adjoining brook, that purls along
The vocal grove, now fretting o'er a rock,
Now scarcely moving through a reedy pool,
Now starting to a sudden stream, and now
Gently diffused into a limpid plain;
A various group the herds and flocks compose,
Rural confusion! On the grassy bank
Some ruminating lie; while others stand
Half in the flood, and often bending sip
The circling surface. In the middle droops
The strong laborious ox, of honest front,
Which incomposed he shakes; and from his sides
The troublous insects lashes with his tail,
Returning still. Amid his subjects safe,
Slumbers the monarch-swain, his careless arm
Thrown round his head, on downy moss sustained
Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands filled;
There, listening every noise, his watchful dog.
SONNET ON COUNTRY LIFE.
To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,-to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye
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