MINE be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivy'd porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet-gown and apron blue. 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, 'Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey, Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight, -Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly, No guardian sylph, in golden panoply, Lifts the broad shield, and points the glittering spear. Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore. AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST.* TREAD lightly here, for here, 'tis said, -Gone to the world where birds are blest! Inscribed on an urn in the flower-garden at Hafod. |