Infantine effusions By Ernest Charles Jones, written by him, between the eighth and tenth years of his age |
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LINES. Written 23th July 1828. |
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 | Infantine effusions |  |
LINES. Written 23th July 1828.
Ye Muses! frame my merry lay,
And let it ring around!
As the harp's enchanting play,
Or like the lute's sweet sound!
And let it ring around!
As the harp's enchanting play,
Or like the lute's sweet sound!
When swains, beneath the cooling shade,
Of olive trees so soft,
In some sweet, delightful glade,
Tune their Carols oft.
Of olive trees so soft,
In some sweet, delightful glade,
Tune their Carols oft.
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When merry bees, did swarm around,
And suck the honey sweet,
From each flower, on the ground,
At the shepherds feet;
And suck the honey sweet,
From each flower, on the ground,
At the shepherds feet;
Or flew, where some high-growing palm
Tower'd to the sky
Diffusing its enchanting balm,
To many shepherds nigh.
Tower'd to the sky
Diffusing its enchanting balm,
To many shepherds nigh.
Or where, some pretty little bird,
Did tune his dulcet lay,
And far, and near, his song was heard,
As he winged his airy way.
Did tune his dulcet lay,
And far, and near, his song was heard,
As he winged his airy way.
Where waterfalls—that murmuring nigh
(Invite each tender lamb,)
To Heaven—send their sylvan sigh—
And break against the dam.
(Invite each tender lamb,)
To Heaven—send their sylvan sigh—
And break against the dam.
Where fishes sport in play along,
Within the silver lake
And stem the current—runing strong—
And sparkling waves that break.
Within the silver lake
And stem the current—runing strong—
And sparkling waves that break.
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And where the ever timid fawn,
Gazing in the fount,
Retires, when the roseate morn—
Gilds yon distant Mount;
Gazing in the fount,
Retires, when the roseate morn—
Gilds yon distant Mount;
And seems to say—ah happy me—
Man, ne'er with me can vie,
I rest beneath the olive tree,
And through the vale—I fly;
Man, ne'er with me can vie,
I rest beneath the olive tree,
And through the vale—I fly;
Where roses, with the myrtle twine—
And thyme, bestuds the ground,
And clust'ring grows the sweet woodbine—
Caressing—clambering round.
And thyme, bestuds the ground,
And clust'ring grows the sweet woodbine—
Caressing—clambering round.
Where with myrtle, shepherds make—
Many a chaplet green—
And their lyre strings awake,
In many a cloudless scene.
Many a chaplet green—
And their lyre strings awake,
In many a cloudless scene.
Now I will close my merry lay,
And shut my “little book”,
I see the rays of parting day—
The shepherd—fold his flock.
And shut my “little book”,
I see the rays of parting day—
The shepherd—fold his flock.
| Infantine effusions | |