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In yon deep bed of whispering reeds

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye His airy harp shall now be laid,

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering dear? That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, May love through life the soothing shade.

And joy desert the blooming year.

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Silent nymph, with curious eye! Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy man ; Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings; Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale; Come, with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy sister Muse; Now, while Phæbus riding high, Gires lustre to the land and sky! Grongar Hill invites my song, Draw the landscape bright and strong; Grongar, in whose mossy cells, Sweetly musing, quiet dwells; Grongar, in whose silent shade, For the modest Muses made, So oft I have, the evening still, At the fountain of a rill, Sat upon a flowery bed, With my hand beneath my head; While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood, Over mead, and over wood, From house to house, from hill to hill, Till contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,

and grottoes where I lay,
And vistoes shooting beams of day:
Wide and wider spreads the vale ;
As circles on a smooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate !
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise :
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly-risen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene,
Does the face of nature show,
In all the hues of Heaven's bow;
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,

Proudly towering in the skies!
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires !
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads !
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks!

Below me trees unnumber'd rise,
Beautiful in various dyes:
The gloonry pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir, that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs.
And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye!
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood,
His sides are cloth'd with waving wood,
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps :
So both a safety from the wind
On mutual dependence find.
'Tis now the raven's bleak abode;
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there falls
Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls.
Yet time has seen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state :
But transient is the smile of fate;
A little rule, a little sway,
A sun-beam in a winter's-day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers how they run,
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life, to endless sleep!
Thus is nature's vesture wrought,
To instruct our wandering thought;

Thus she dresses green and gay,

And never covet what I see : To disperse our cares away.

Content me with an humble shade, Ever charming, ever new,

My passions tam'd, my wishes laid; When will the landscape tire the view !

For, while our wishes wildly roll, The fountain's fall, the river's flow,

We banish quiet from the soul : The woody vallies, warm and low;

'Tis thus the busy beat the air, The windy summit, wild and high,

And misers gather wealth and care. Roughly rushing on the sky!

Now, ev'n now, my joys run high, The pleasant seat, the ruin's tower,

As on the mountain-turf I lie; The naked rock, the shady bower;

While the wanton zephyr sings, The town and village, dome and farm,

And in the vale perfumes his wings; Each give each a double charm,

While the waters murmur deep; As pearls upon an Æthiop's arm.

While the shepherd charms his sheep; See on the mountain's southern side,

While the birds unbounded fly, Where the prospect opens wide,

And with music fill the sky, Where the evening gilds the tide;

Now, ev'n now, my joys run high. How close and small the hedges lie !

Be full, ye courts; be great who will; What streaks of meadows cross the eye!

Search for peace with all your

skill: A step methinks may pass the stream,

Open wide the lofty door, So little distant dangers seem;

Seek her on the marble floor. So we mistake the future's face,

In vain you search, she is not there; Ey'd through hope's deluding glass,

In vain ye search the domes of care! As yon summits, soft and fair,

Grass and flowers quiet treads, Clad in colours of the air,

On the meads and mountain-heads, Which, to those that journey near,

Along with pleasure, close ally'd, Barren, brown, and rough appear;

Ever by each other's side: Still we tread the same coarse way,

And often, by the murmuring rill, The present's still a cloudy day.

Hears the thrush, while all is still, O may I with myself agree,


the groves of Grongar Hill.

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My banks they are furnish'd with bees,

Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees,

And my hilļs are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with moss,

Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay,

Whose flocks never carelessly roam; Should Corydon's happen to stray,

Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to muse and to sigh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I;

I have left my dear Phyllis behind. Now I know what it is, to have strove

With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn,

And the damps of each evening repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn :

--I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. Since Phyllis vouchsaf'd me a look,

I never once dreamt of my vive:
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,

If I knew of a kid that was mine,
I priz’d every hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But now they are past, and I sigh;

And I grieve that I priz’d them no more. But why do I languish in vain;

Why wander thus pensively here? Oh! why did I come from the plain,

Where I fed on the smiles of my dear? They tell me, my favourite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown. Alas! where with her I have stray'd,

I could wander with pleasure, alone.
When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,

What anguish I felt at my heart:
Yet I thought-but it might not be som

'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. She gaz’d, as I slowly withdrew;

My path I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day

To visit some far-distant shrine, If he bear but a relique away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweetbriar entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year,

More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,

But it glitters with fishes of gold.
One would think she might like to retire

To the bower I have labour'd to rear;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

But I hasted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamine strove

With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away. From the plains, from the woodlands and

What strains of wild melody flow!
How the nightingales warble their loves

From thickets of roses that blow!
And when her bright form shall appear,

Each bird shall harmoniously join
In a concert so soft and so clear,

As--she may not be fond to resign.
I have found out a gift for my fair;

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed:
But let me that plunder forbear,

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er could be true, she aver'd,

Who could rob a poor bird of its young:
And I lov'd her the more when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
I have heard her with sweetness unfold

How that pity was due toma dove:
That it ever attended the bold;

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And she call'd it the sister of love.

He throws it at Phyllis's feet. But her words such a pleasure convey,

“O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair, So much I her accents adore,

More sweet than the jessamine's flower! Let her speak, and whatever she say,

What are pinks in a morn, to compare? Methinks I should love her the more.

What is eglantine after a shower? Can a bosom so gentle remain

Then the lily no longer is white, Unmov’d, when her Corydon sighs !

Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom, Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,

Then the violets die with despight, These plains and this valley despise ?

And the woodbines give up their perfume." Dear regions of silence and shade!

Thus glide the soft numbers along, Soft scenes of contentment and ease!

And he fancies no shepherd his peer; Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,

-Yet I never should envy the song, If aught in her absence could please.

Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear. But where does my Phyllida stray ?

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, And where are her grots and her bowers ?

So Phyllis the trophy despise : Are the groves and the vallies as gay,

Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd, And the shepherds as gentle as ours ?

So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes. The groves may perhaps be as fair,

The language that flows from the heart, And the face of the vallies as fine;

Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue; The swains may in manners compare,

-Yet may she beware of his art,
But their love is not equal to mine.

Or sure I must envy the song.

Why will you my passion reprove ?

Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay, Why term it a folly to grieve ?

And take no more heed of my sheep: Ere I show you the charms of my love;

They have nothing to do but to stray; She is fairer than you can believe.

I have nothing to do but to weep. With her mien she enamours the brave;

Yet do not my folly reprove ; With her wit she engages the free ;

She was fair-and my passion begun; With her modesty pleases the grave;

She smil'd--and I could not but love; She is every way pleasing to me.

She is faithless and I am undone. O you that have been of her train,

Perhaps I was void of all thought: Come and join in my amorous lays ;

Perhaps it was plain to foresee, I could lay down my life for the swain,

That a nymph so complete would be sought That will sing but a song in her praise.

By a swain more engaging than me. When he sings, may the nymphs of the town Ah! love every hope can inspire ; Come trooping, and listen the while;

It banishes wisdom the while; Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown;

And the lip of the nymph we admire - But I cannot allow her to smile.

Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile. For when Paridel tries in the dance

She is faithless, and I am undone; Any favour with Phyllis to find,

Ye that witness the woes I endure, O how, with one trivial glance,

Let reason instruct you to shun Might she ruin the peace of my mind!

What it cannot instruct you to cure. In ringlets he dresses his hair,

Beware how you loiter in vain And his crook is bestudded around;

Amid nymphs of an higher degree: And his pipe-oh my Phyllis beware

It is not for me to explain Of a magic there is in the sound.

How fair, and how fickle, they be. 'Tis his with mock passion to glow,

Alas! from the day that we met, "Tis his in smooth tales to unfold,

What hope of an end to my

woes? 6 How her face is as bright as the snow,

When I cannot endure to forget And her bosom, be sure, is as cold.

The glance that undid my repose. How the nightingales labour the strain,

Yet time may diminish the pain : With the notes of his charmer to vie;

The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, How they vary their accents in vain,

Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, Repine at her triumphs, and die.”

In time may have comfort for me. To the grove or the garden he strays,

The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose, And pillages every sweet;

The sound of a murmuring stream, Then suiting the wreath to his lays,

The peace which from solitude flows,

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