O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare,
As 'wildered and wearied I roam,
A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,
And leads me o'er lawns to her home.
Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crowned,
Green rushes were strewed on her floor;
Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round, And decked the sod seats at her door.
We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast
Fresh fruits-and she culled me the best ; While thrown from my guard by some glances she cast, Love slyly stole into my breast!
I told my soft wishes: she sweetly replied
(Ye virgins, her voice was divine !)
"The rich ones rejected, and great ones denied,
But take me, fond shepherd-I'm thine."
CONTENT. A PASTORAL.
Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek,
So simple yet sweet were her charms,
I kissed the ripe roses that glowed on her cheek,
And locked the loved maid in my arms.
Now jocund together we tend a few sheep;
And if by yon prattler, the stream,
Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.
Together we range o'er the slow rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views,
Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,
And point out new themes for my use.
To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,
The damsel of humble descent;
The cottager Peace is well known for her sire,
And shepherds have named her Content.
Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise,
We love the play-place of our early days;
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone
That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
The wall on which we tried our graving skill,
The very name we carved subsisting still;
The bench on which we sat while deep employed,
Though mangled, hacked and hewed, not yet destroyed.
The little ones, unbuttoned, glowing hot,
Playing our games, and on the very spot;
As happy as we once, to kneel and draw
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw;
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat,
Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat.
The pleasing spectacle at once excites
Such recollection of our own delights,
That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain
Our innocent sweet simple years again.
This fond attachment to the well-known place,
Whence first we started into life's long race,
Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway,
We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.
OH! a dainty plant is the ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old;
On right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim,
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him :
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though
he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he;
How closely he twineth, how close he clings
To his friend the huge oak-tree!
And slily he traineth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently
The brave old plant in its lonely days
Shall fatten on the past; For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last :
Creeping on where time has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.
A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark.
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent :
"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song:
For 't was the selfsame Power divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine,
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night."
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