Wandering through the landscape still, And on each moss-wove border damp But when the Sun, at noon-tide hour, The nymphs and swains, a busy throng; Of mirth and toil, that hums around; But ever, after summer-show'r, When the bright sun's returning pow'r, With laughing beam has chas'd the storm, And cheer'd reviving Nature's form; By sweet-brier hedges, bath'd in dew, Let me my wholesome path pursue; There issuing forth, the frequent snail While, as I walk, from pearled bush But ever against restless heat, Bear me to the rock-arch'd seat, O'er whose dim mouth an ivied oak, Hangs nodding from the low-brow'd rock; Haunted by that chaste nymph alone, Whose waters cleave the smoothed stone; Which, as they gush upon the ground, Still scatter misty dews around: A rustic, wild, grotesque alcove, Its side with mantling woodbines wove; Cool as the cave where Clio dwells, Whence Helicon's fresh fountain wells; Or noon-tide grot where Silvan sleeps Me, Goddess, in such cavern lay, While all without is scorch'd in day: Sore sighs the weary swain beneath His withering hawthorn on the heath; The drooping hedger wishes eve, In vain, of labour short reprieve! Meantime, on Afric's glowing sands, Smote with keen heat, the traveller stands; Low sinks his heart, while round his eye Measures the scenes that boundless lie, Ne'er yet by foot of mortal worn, Where Thirst, wan pilgrim, walks forlorn. How does he wish some cooling wave To slake his lips, or limbs to lave! And thinks, in every whisper low, He hears a bursting fountain flow. Or bear me to yon antique wood, Dim temple of sage Solitude! There within a nook most dark, Where none my musing mood may mark, Let me in many a whisper'd rite The genius old of Greece invite, With that fair wreath my brows to bind, Which for his chosen imps he twin'd, Well nurtur'd in Pierian lore, On clear Illissus' laureate shore. Where widow'd turtles love to wail, Crown'd, a scant rivulet winds its way, Nor cot, nor loitering hind is seen; Save that by fits an heifer lows: A scene might tempt some peaceful sage To rear him a lone hermitage ; Fit place his pensive eld might choose, On virtue's holy lore to muse. Yet still the sultry noon t' appease, Some more romantic scene might please; Or fairy bank, or magic lawn, By Spenser's lavish pencil drawn : Or bow'r in Vallombrosa's shade, By legendary pens portray'd. Haste, let me shroud from painful light, In solemn state, where waving wide, But when mild Morn in saffron stole, First issues from her eastern goal, Let not my due feet fail to climb Some breezy summit's brow sublime, Whence Nature's universal face Illumin'd smiles with new-born grace; |