TO THE GNAT. WHEN by the green-wood side, at summer eve, And fairy-scenes, that Fancy loves to weave, -Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly, 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. 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. |