SONNET. It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here, THE HAMLET. WRITTEN IN WHICHWOOD FOREST. THE hinds how blest, who ne'er beguiled When morning's twilight-tinctured beam Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, They rove abroad in ether blue, To dip the scythe in fragrant dew; 'Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds, Across the glen, the screaming jay: Their weary spirits to relieve, The meadows incense breathe at eve. That o'er a glimmering hearth they share : Duly, the darkening valleys o'er, No trophied canopies, to close Their little sons, who spread the bloom Or drive afield the tardy kine; Or hasten from the sultry hill, To loiter at the shady rill; Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest, Their humble porch with honied flow'rs The curling woodbine's shade embow'rs: From the small garden's thymy mound Their bees in busy swarms resound : L 7 |