Where, in the embower'd translucent stream, The cattle shun the sultry beam,

And o'er us on the marge reclin'd,

The drowsy fly her horn shall wind,
While Echo, from her ancient oak,
Shall answer to the woodman's stroke;
Or the little peasant's song,
Wandering lone the glens among,
His artless lip with berries died,

And feet through ragged shoes descried.

But oh! when evening's virgin queen
Sits on her fringed throne serene,
And mingling whispers rising near,
Steal on the still reposing ear;
While distant brooks decaying round,
Augment the mixed dissolving sound,
And the zephyr flitting by,
Whispers mystic harmony,
We will seek the woody lane,
By the hamlet, on the plain,
Where the weary rustic nigh,
Shall whistle his wild melody,
And the croaking wicket oft

Shall echo from the neighbouring croft;

And as we trace the green path lone,
With moss and rank weeds overgrown,

We will muse on pensive lore,

Till the full soul brimming o'er,

Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear,
Embodied in a quivering tear.
Or else, serenely silent, set
By the brawling rivulet,

Which on its calm unruffled breast,
Rears the old mossy arch impress'd,
That clasps its secret stream of glass,
Half hid in shrubs and waving grass,
The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat,
Unpressed by fawn or sylvan's feet,
We'll watch in eve's etherial braid,
The rich vermilion slowly fade;
Or catch, faint twinkling from afar,
The first glimpse of the eastern star,
Fair Vesper, mildest lamp of light,
That heralds in imperial night:
Meanwhile, upon our wondering ear,
Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear,
The distant sounds of pastoral lute,
Invoking soft the sober suit

Of dimmest darkness-fitting well
With love, or sorrow's pensive spell,
(So erst did music's silver tone
Wake slumbering Chaos on his throne.)
And haply then, with sudden swell,
Shall roar the distant curfew bell,
While in the castle's mouldering tower,
The hooting owl is heard to pour
Her melancholy song, and scare

Dull Silence brooding in the air.

Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car,
Black-suited Night drives on from far,
And Cynthia's 'merging from her rear,
Arrests the waxing darkness drear,
And summons to her silent call,
Sweeping in their airy pall,

The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance,
To join her moonshine morrice-dance ;
While, around the mystic ring,
The shadowy shapes elastic spring,
Then with a passing shriek they fly,
Wrapt in mists along the sky,
And oft are by the shepherd seen,
In his lone night-watch on the green.

Then, hermit, let us turn our feet
To the low abbey's still retreat,
Embowered in the distant glen,
Far from the haunts of busy men,
Where, as we sit upon the tomb,
The glow-worm's light may gild the gloom,
And show to Fancy's saddest eye,

Where some lost hero's ashes lie.

And oh, as through the mouldering arch,
With ivy fill'd and weeping larch,
The night gale whispers sadly clear,
Speaking drear things to Fancy's ear,
We'll hold communion with the shade
Of some deep-wailing ruin'd maid-

Or call the ghost of Spenser down,
To tell of woe and fortune's frown;
And bid us cast the eye of hope
Beyond this bad world's narrow scope.
Or if these joys, to us denied,
To linger by the forest's side;
Or in the meadow or the wood,

Or by the lone romantic flood;
Let us in the busy town,

When sleep's dull streams the people drown

Far from drowsy pillows flee,

And turn the church's massy key;

Then, as through the painted glass
The moon's faint beams obscurely pass;
And darkly on the trophied wall,
Her faint ambiguous shadows fall;
Let us, while the faint winds wail,
Through the long reluctant aisle,
with reverence meet,

As we pace

Count the echoings of our feet;

While from the tombs, with confess'd breath,

Distinct responds the voice of death.

If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend,

Thus on my footsteps to attend,
To thee my lonely lamp shall burn,
By fallen Genius' sainted urn
As o'er the scroll of Time I pore,
And sagely spell of ancient lore,
Till I can rightly guess of all
That Plato could to memory call,

II.

Of distant climes the false report
It lur'd me from my native land;
It bade me rove-my sole support
My cymbals and my saraband.
The woody dell, the hanging rock,
The chamois skipping o'er the heights;
The plain adorn'd with many a flock,
And, oh! a thousand more delights,
That grace yon dear belov'd retreat,
Have backward won my weary feet.

III.

Now safe return'd, with wandering tired, No more my little home I'll leave ; many a tale of what I've seen

And

Shall whyle away the winter's eve.
Oh! I have wander'd far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband;

But all their charms could not prevail,
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

VOL. II.