The goats wind flow their wonted way, Up craggy fteeps and ridges rude; Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey, From defert cave or hanging wood. And while the torrent thunders loud, And as the echoing cliffs reply, The huts peep o'er the morning-cloud, Perch'd, like an eagle's neft, on high. A W I S H. MINE be a cot befide the hill; A bee-hive's hum fhall footh my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, fhall linger near. The fwallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built neft; Oft fhall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch fhall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, fhall fing, In ruffet gown and apron blue. The village-church, among the trees, Where firft our marriage-vows were giv'n, With merry peals fhall fwell the breeze, And point with taper fpire to heav'n. ΑΝ ITALIAN SON G. DEAR is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and warbles there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every paffing villager. The fquirrel leaps from tree to tree, And shells his nuts at liberty. In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours With my lov'd lute's romantic found; |