And yonder hill remoter grows,
Or dusky clouds do interpose.
The fields are left, the labouring hind
His weary oxen does unbind ;
And vocal mountains, as they low,
Re-echo to the vales below;
The jocund shepherds piping come,
And drive the herd before them home;
And now begin to light their fires;
Which send up smoke in curling spires;
While with light hearts all homeward tend,
To Arbergasney *I descend.
But, oh! how bless'd would be the day
Did I with Clio pace my way,
And not alone and solitary stray.
The name of a seat belonging to the Author's brother.
YE poor little Sheep! ah! well may ye stray,
While sad is your shepherd, and Clio away!
Tell where have you been; have you met with my love
On the mountain, or valley, or meadow, or grove?
Alas-a-day! No-ye are starv`d and half dead; 5
Ye saw not my love, or ye all had been fed.
Oh, Sun! did you see her?-ah! surely you did: 'Mong what willows, or woodbines, or reeds, is she hid?
Ye tall whistling Pines! that on yonder hill grow, And o'erlook the beautiful valley below,
Did you see her a-roving in wood or in brake, 11 Or bathing her fair limbs in some silent lake?
Ye mountains! that look on the vigorous east, And the north,and the south,and the wearisome west, Pray tell where she hides her; you surely do know; And let not her lover pine after her so.
Oh! had I the wings of an eagle, I'd fly Along with bright Phœbus all over the sky; Like an eagle,look down, with my wings wide diplay'd And dart in my eyes at each whispering shade : I'd search every tuft in my diligent tour,
I'd unravel the woodbines, and look in each bow'r, Till I found out my Clio, and ended my pain,
DELIGHTFUL partner of my heart,
Master of the loveliest art!
How sweet our senses you deceive,
When we, a gazing throng, believe !
Here flows the Po-the Minis there,
Winding about with sedgy hair';
And there the Tiber's yellow flood,
Beneath a thick and gloomy wood;
And there Darius' broken ranks
Upon the Granic's bloody banks,
Who bravely die, or basely run
From Philip's all-subduing son;
And there the wounded Porus, brought
(The bravest man that ever fought!)
To Alexander's tent, who eyes
His dauntless visage as he lies
In death's most painful agonies.
To me reveal thy heav'nly art,
To me thy mysteries impart.
As yet I but in verse can paint,
And to th' idea colour faint
What to the open eye you show,
The beauteous shapes of objects near,
Or distant ones confus'd in air;
The golden eve, the blushing dawn,
Smiling on the lovely lawn!
And pleasing views of checker'd glades,
And rivers winding thro' the shades,
And sunny hills-and pleasant plains,
And groups of merry nymphs and swains.
Or some old building, hid with grass,
Rearing sad its ruin'd face,
Whose columns, frizes, statues; lie
The grief and wonder of the eye!
Or swift adown a mountain tall
A foaming cat'ract's sounding fall,
Whose loud roaring stuns the ear
Of the wondering traveller ;
Or a calm and quiet bay,
And a level shining sea;
Or surges rough, that froth and roar,
And, angry, dash the sounding shore;
And vessels toss'd, and billows high,
And light'ning flashing from the sky;
Or that which gives me most delight,
The fair idea (seeming sight!)
Of warrior fierce, with shining blade,
Or orator, with arms display'd,
Tully's engaging air and mien
Declaiming against Catiline;
Or fierce Achilles towering high
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