Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, Around my ivy'd porch shall spring The village-church, among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven. TO THE GNAT. WHEN by the green-wood side, at summer eve, And fairy-scenes, that Fancy loves to weave, No guardian sylph, in golden panoply, Lifts the broad shield, and points the glittering spear. AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST. * TREAD lightly here, for here, 'tis said, * Inscribed on an urn in the flower-garden at Hafod. |