Oh! then, my little friend, thy style
I'd change to happier lays,
Oh! then, the cloistered glooms should smile,
And through the long, the fretted aisle
Should swell the note of praise.
Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering light,
And day's last vestige takes its silent flight.
No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke
Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle broke;
No more, hoarse clamoring o'er the uplifted head,
The crows assembling, seek their wind-rocked bed.
Stilled is the village hum-the woodland sounds
Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds,
And general silence reigns, save when below,
The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow;
And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late,
Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate;
Or, when the sheep bell, in the distant vale,
Breathes its wild music on the downy gale.
Now, when the rustic wears the social smile,
Released from day and its attendant toil,
And draws his household round their evening fire,
And tells the oft-told tales that never tire:
Or, where the town's blue turrets dimly rise,
And manufacture taints the ambient skies,