The air is brisk, and the green lowland rings
With tinkling waterfalls and bubbling springs,
The clouds glance fleetly by, and, as they pass
Fling their light shadows o’er the glittering grass,
The wild thyme trembles as the reckless bee
Springs from its dusky flow’rets fearfully,
The distant hills give back the tedious cry
Of some lone crow that wings it wearily,
And the pale weeds which chafe that tott’ring wall
Lisp to the chirpings of the waterfall.
Through the tall hedge-row, where the straggling rose
Bows its warm blossom as the light wind blows,
And stately elms their twining branches sway,
Streams the full splendour of the noon-tide ray;
While in its sheen the glitt’ring flies prolong
The mazy dance, and urge their drowsy song,
Though with fair speech and music ever new
The woods are vocal, and the waters too;
Sounds less presuming, but to fancy dear,
Come indistinctly o’er the wakeful ear,
The whirring beetle as it blindly heaves
The scrambling black-thorn, or the sapling’s leaves,
Or dash of pebbles in that brooklet’s tide,
As the wren nestles in its grassy side.
Oh! could I lose the world, and, thus beguiled,
Pass all my days in some secluded wild!
For all its proffers seems, compared to this,
A thirsty desert, where no water is.
(D A)
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