The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

O nymph of meek and blushful mien,
Lone wand'rer of the rural scene,
Who lovest not the city's bustling sound,
But in the still and simple vale
Art pleas'd to hear the turtle's tale,
'Mid the gay minstrelsy that floats around!

Now on the bank, amid the sunny beam
I see thee mark the natives of the stream,
That break the dimpling surface with delight;
Now see thee pitying a poor captive fly,
Snapp'd from the lov'd companions of his joy,
And, swallow'd, sink beneath the gulf of night.

Now see thee, in the humming golden hour,
Observant of the bee, from flow'r to flow'r,
That loads with varied balm his little thighs,
To guard against chill Winter's famish'd day,
When rains descend, and clouds obscure the ray,
And tempests pour their thunder thro' the skies.

Now see thee happy, with the sweetest smile,
Attentive stretch'd along the fragrant soil,

422

Beholding the small myriads of the plain,
The pismires, some upon their sunny hills,
Some thirsty wand'ring to the crystal rills,
Some loaded bringing back the snowy grain;

So like the lab'ring swains, who yet look down
Contemptuous on their toils and tiny town!

Now see thee playful chase the child of spring,
The winnowing butterfly with painted wing,
That busy flickers on from bloom to bloom;
Pursuing wildly now a fav'rite fair,
Circling amid the golden realm of air,
And leaving, all for love, the pea's perfume.

Now see thee peeping on the secret nest,
Where sits the parent wren in patient rest;
While at her side her feather'd partner sings;
Chants his short note, to charm her nursing day;
Now for his loves pursues his airy way,
And now with food returns on cheerful wings.

Pleas'd could I sit with thee, O nymph so sweet,
And hear the happy flocks around thee bleat;
And mark their skipping sports along the land;
Now hear thee to a fav'rite lambkin speak,
Who wanton stretches forth his woolly neck,
And plucks the fragrant herbage from thy hand.

Thus could I dwell with thee for many an hour:
Yet, should a rural Venus from her bow'r
Step forth with bosom bare, and beaming eye,
And flaxen locks, luxuriant rose-clad cheek,
And purple lip, and dimpled chin, so sleek,
And archly heave the love-seducing sigh;

And cry, ‘Come hither, swain—be not afraid;
‘Embrace the wild, and quit the simple maid’—
I verily believe that I should go:
Yet, parting, should I say to thee, ‘Farewel—
I cannot help it—Witchcraft's in her cell—
The passions like to be where tempests blow—

423

Go, girl, enjoy thy fish, and flies, and doves;
But suffer me to giggle with the Loves.’

Thus should I act—excuse me, charming saint:
An imp am I, in Virtue's cause so faint;
Like David in his youth, a lawless swain!
Preferring (let me own with blushing face)
The storms of Passion to the calms of Grace;
One ounce of pleasure to a pound of pain.