Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, Around my ivy'd porch shall spring The village-church, among the trees, D. Aller TO THE GNAT. WHEN by the green-wood side, at summer eve, No guardian sylph, in golden panoply, Lifts the broad shield, and points the glittering spear. AN ЕРІТАРН ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST.* TREAD lightly here, for here, 'tis said, * Inscribed on an urn in the flower-garden at Hafod. D D DEAR is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, The shepherd's horn at break of day, |