Joyed at the opening splendour of the morn, Or, as the twilight darkened, heaved the sigh, Thinking of distant home; as down my cheek,
At the fond thought, slow stealing on, would speak The silent eloquence of the full eye.
Dim are the long past days, yet still they please
As thy soft sounds half heard, borne on the inconstant breeze.
WRITTEN AT WINSLADE IN HAMPSHIRE.
WINSLADE, thy beech-capt hills, with waving grain Mantled, thy chequer'd views of wood and lawn, Whilom could charm, or when the gradual dawn 'Gan the gray mist with orient purple stain, Or Evening glimmer'd o'er the folded train: Her fairest landskips whence my Muse has drawn, Too free with servile courtly phrase to fawn, Too weak to try the buskin's stately strain:
Yet now no more thy slopes of beech and corn,
Nor views invite, since he far distant strays,
With whom I traced their sweets at eve and morn,
From Albion far, to cull Hesperian bays;
In this alone they please, howe'er forlorn,
That still they can recal those happier days.-Warton.
ON Leven's banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love;
I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod the Arcadian plain. Pure stream! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source; No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread; While, lightly poised, the scaly brood In myriads cleave thy crystal flood ; The springing trout, in speckled pride; The salmon, monarch of the tide ; The ruthless pike, intent on war; The silver eel, and mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make, By bowers of birch, and groves of pine, And hedges flower'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks, so gaily green,
May numerous herds and flocks be seen, And lasses chanting o'er the pail,
And shepherds piping in the dale, And ancient faith that knows no guile,
And industry imbrown'd with toil,
And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, The blessings they enjoy to guard.
BECAUSE I breathe not love to every one, Nor do I use set colours for to wear,
Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair Nor give each speech a full point of a groan; The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan Of them who in their lips Love's standard bear, What, he? say they of me, now I dare swear He cannot love! no, no; let him alone. And think so still, so Stella know my mind! Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art;
But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find, That his right badge is but worn in the heart. Dumb swaus, not chattering pies, do lovers prove. They love indeed, who quake to say they love.
Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who, from her green lap, throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire! Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
E have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill'd with flowers;
And ye the walks have been,
Where maids have spent their hours.
Ye have beheld where they
With wicker arks did come,
To kiss and bear away
The richer cowslips home.
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