Through the high wood echoing shrill: Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great sun begins his state, Rob'd in flames, and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the ploughman near at hand Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landscape round it measures;
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray, Mountains, on whose barren breast The lab'ring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some Beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighb'ring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, Are at their
Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; And then in haste the bow'r she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tann'd haycock in the mead, Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound
To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the chequer'd shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday,
Till the live-long daylight fail; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat, How fairy Mab the junkets eat; She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said, And he by friars' lanthorn led,
Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat, To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn, That ten day-lab'rers could not end; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And stretch'd out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men,
Where throngs of knights and barons bold In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit, or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear
In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony;
That Orpheus' self may heave his head. From golden slumber on a bed
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half regain'd Eurydice.
These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
Part of an Entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of Derby, at Harefield, by some noble persons of her family; who appear on the scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat of state, with this song.
300K, Nymphs and Shepherds, look, What sudden blaze of majesty
Is that which we from hence descry, Too divine to be mistook;
To whom our vows and wishes bend; Here our solemn search hath end.
Fame, that her high worth to raise, Seem'd erst so lavish and profuse, We may justly now accuse Of detraction from her praise; Less than half we find express'd, Envy bid conceal the rest.
Mark what radiant state she spreads, In circle round her shining throne, Shooting her beams like silver threads; This, this is she alone,
Sitting like a Goddess bright, In the centre of her light.
Might she the wise Latona be, Or the tower'd Cybele, Mother of a hundred Gods? Juno dares not give her odds;
Who had thought this clime had held A deity so unparallel'd?
As they come forward, the GENIUS of the wood appears, and turning toward them, speaks.
Gen. Stay, gentle Swains, for though in this disguise,
I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes; Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung Of that renowned flood, so often sung, Divine Alphéus, who by secret sluice Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse; And ye, the breathing roses of the wood, Fair silver-buskin'd Nymphs, as great and good, I know this quest of yours, and free intent Was all in honour and devotion meant To the great mistress of yon princely shrine, Whom with low reverence I adore as mine, And with all helpful service will comply To further this night's glad solemnity; And lead ye where ye may more near behold What shallow-searching Fame has left untold; Which I full oft amidst these shades alone Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon: For know, by lot from Jove I am the Power
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