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, And point with taper spire to heaven. WHEN by the green-wood side, at summer eve, Poetic visions charm my closing eye; And fairy-scenes, that Fancy loves to weave, Shift to wild notes of sweetest minstrelsy; Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey, Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight, Brush from my lids the hues of heaven away, And all is Solitude, and all is Night! -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, groves, With ruffled wing and faded breast, His friendless, homeless spirit roves; -Gone to the world where birds are blest! * Inscribed on an urn in the flower-garden at Hafod. P And now to thee she comes; still, still the same As in the hours gone unregarded by! To thee, how changed, comes as she ever came: Health on her cheek, and pleasure in her eye! Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears, |