Pass'd is the spangling shower-well pleas'd I hail
The emerald bow that seems to span the vale.
Through the still meads then oft my steps are seen,
Where the small hamlet spreads its straggling green,
Its little orchard plot-the smiling field,
Mid tufts of auburn foliage half conceal'd,
(The Leveret's haunt) yon bank of yellow broom,
And the sweet odours of the trefoil bloom;
And not unmark'd the Naiad's hand that leads
Her winding waters through a thousand meads,
(While more remote, where the low hills extend,
Bright purple heaths and russet fallows blend);
For there the humble virtues love to rest
Secure, and shelter'd in the peasant's nest;
Like the sweet tenants of the hive, they dwell,
Gentle companions of the poor man's cell.
Pleas'd memory tells, how warm his bosom
glow'd

For ills prevented, or for good bestow'd,
While the small mite, in love, in pity given,
Touch'd by his hand, became a gem in Heaven.

Uplift the latch that opes the matron's door,
Though low the roof and scanty be her store,
Yet meek content, and patient labour there,
Spread the small couch and eat their evening fare.
Safe, where no ills molest, no cares invade,
Watch'd by the genius of the rural shade;
And when that sleep (such monarchs seldom knew),

Has bath'd them in its soft celestial dew,
Rise from their rest (ere the blue morning break
From the fresh heaven, or early breezes wake,
Scattering the glist'ning drops from off the thorn,
Or list'ning in the copse the hunter's horn);
And duly as the sun, and day by day,

Tread the same path through life's unwearied way;
Their frugal virtues wisdom's eye admires,
Where prudence guards what industry acquires.
The glassy brook-the bee-hive at the door-
The golden sheaf-the garden's fragrant store,
Their little wants supply, they ask no more.
While leisure loves in these sequester'd bowers
The soft oblivion of the silent hours.

And are there not who oft have cried in vain,

Ah, give to me my russet weeds again!" See, bending o'er her wheel with patient care, Her cheek just shaded by her nut-brown hair, Content the cottage maid is singing there. How fresh for her the vernal zephyr blows! For her how fair the purple morning glows! Her's the green earth in all its beauty given, And her's the bright transparent dome of heaven. Tired nature rests-the sun declines his rays, Round the warm hearth the evening fagots blaze. Stretch'd by the cheerful fire, the genial board, They wish not Russell's wealth, nor Gideon's hoard:

Nor envy they, by summer fountain laid,

The lords of Chatsworth, or of Ragley's shade.

Wandering I see at twilight's gentlest hour
The lights that linger on the village tower,
Watch the soft clouds their faëry lustre leave,
Like isles, that gem the emerald sky of eve,
Catch every changing hue, the amber fold,
Bright ruby gleams, and lakes of floating gold;
Refulgent tints, that mimic art defy,

And spread a nobler purple down the sky.
Now o'er the vale descends a darker hue,
(The distant mill-sail lessening to the view)
And where the grange its garners broad extends,
Forest and field a lengthening shadow blends.

I

pass the woodman on his homeward way,

The lowing kine, the sports that close the day, When all the budding groves are green in May;. Catch from the distant fold the tinkling bell,

In the still evening heard that seems to tell,

Ye vales and uplands grey a long and last farewell!'

Studious of song! 'tis thine with ease to blend
Learning with mirth, the instructor and the friend.
'Tis thine to point the page where taste presides,
Where wit enlivens, and where genius guides;
To show the knowledge deep, the judgment clear,
The varying fancy sportive or severe.

With curious toil (nor mean the praise) to trace
Each finer harmony, each latent grace,
Recall the wanderings of a thoughtless age

To Spenser's song, or Shakespeare's bolder page,
Mark each connecting chain, each deep design,
And pour fresh lustre on the glowing line;
With just remark refine the poet's lays,
And give the critic's art a higher praise.
Touch'd by no meaner hand, so pleas'd I see
The wreath that Gifford wore, descend to thee.

Come then, alike in converse grave or gay,
Speed the swift hours, and share the social day;
Leave the huge city's throng, the tumult loud,
Absolved of care, and sacred from the crowd.
(Thy hand the Muses' various gifts inspire
To dip the pencil, or to wake the lyre ;)
Aid me to wind my banks, direct my shade,
Slope the green lawn, or roll the broad cascade,
Collect the flowers the cultur'd garden yields,
And glean the soft instruction of the fields;
Paint with new light the mountain's florid brow,
And wake the genius of the flood below.
With calm desires and gentlest wishes blest,
Here mayst thou choose of nature's gifts the best.
Thine is the laurel shade-the chesnut bower,
When summer glows beneath the noontide hour.
The vernal walk is thine-the soften'd scene,
Sweet evening lights, and golden skies serene;
The fresh airs moving o'er the mottled sea,
And Hesper's fragrant lamp, that burns for thee.

Calm leisure waits thee here-nor thou disdain

Our humbler annals, and inglorious plain.
Once to these silent woods young Milton came,"
(The site, the shade now consecrate to fame)
Time holds not in his hand a more immortal

name.

Then was the hour when with exulting spring,
Youth lent to Genius all its fiery wing,
When Fancy roam'd the rich creation free;
A line, a word---was immortality.

In all the wealth of Plato's mind array'd,
When science wooed him in the olive shade,
He came the friend in converse sweet to cheer,
(Waking the memory of each youthful year,
When, ere the lark had sung, at matin tide,
Building high thoughts, in converse side by side;
Oft by the early shepherd they were seen,
Or old Damœtas on the dewy green)
Sure in that little Tusculum to find
The ripen'd wisdom of a scholar's mind.
The first his young enamour'd feet to lead
By many a flowery rock and haunted mead,
Wet with Castalian dews-each bold design
Urging, till now along the steep divine,

He caught the gleam of Phœbus' golden shrine..
Heard round its gates the hallow'd laurels wave,
And sound of choral fountains warbling in their

cave.

Behold! not far remov'd, yon elmy vale;
Whose branching foliage screens the mossy pale;