 | The rural muse poems |  |
111
THE PASTURE.
The pewit is come to the green,
And swoops o'er the swain at his plough.
Where the greensward in places is seen,
Pressed down by the lairs of the cow,
The mole roots her hillocks anew,
For seasons to dress at their wills
In their thyme, and their beautiful dew;
For the pasture's delight is its hills.
And swoops o'er the swain at his plough.
Where the greensward in places is seen,
Pressed down by the lairs of the cow,
The mole roots her hillocks anew,
For seasons to dress at their wills
In their thyme, and their beautiful dew;
For the pasture's delight is its hills.
They invite us, when weary, to drop
On their cushions awhile; and again
They invite us, when musing, to stop,
And see how they checker the plain:
And the old hills swell out in the sun,
So inviting e'en now, that the boy
Has his game of peg-morris begun,
And cuts his rude figures in joy.
On their cushions awhile; and again
They invite us, when musing, to stop,
And see how they checker the plain:
And the old hills swell out in the sun,
So inviting e'en now, that the boy
Has his game of peg-morris begun,
And cuts his rude figures in joy.
When I stroll o'er the mole-hilly green,
Stepping onward from hillock to hill,
I think over pictures I've seen,
And feel them deliciously still.
I think when the glad shepherd lay
On the velvet sward stretched, for a bed,
On the bosom of sunshiny May,
While a hillock supported his head.
Stepping onward from hillock to hill,
I think over pictures I've seen,
And feel them deliciously still.
112
On the velvet sward stretched, for a bed,
On the bosom of sunshiny May,
While a hillock supported his head.
I think when, in weeding, the maid
Made choice of a hill for her seat;
When the winds so deliciously played
In her curls, 'mid her blushes so sweet.
I think of gay groups in the shade,
In hay-time, with noise never still,
When the short sward their gay cushions made.
And their dinner was spread on a hill.
Made choice of a hill for her seat;
When the winds so deliciously played
In her curls, 'mid her blushes so sweet.
I think of gay groups in the shade,
In hay-time, with noise never still,
When the short sward their gay cushions made.
And their dinner was spread on a hill.
I think when, in harvest, folks lay
Underneath the green shade of a tree,
While the children were busy at play,
Running round the huge trunk in their glee.
Joy shouted wherever I went;
And e'en now such a freshness it yields,
I could fancy, with books and a tent,
What delight we could find in the fields.
Underneath the green shade of a tree,
While the children were busy at play,
Running round the huge trunk in their glee.
Joy shouted wherever I went;
And e'en now such a freshness it yields,
I could fancy, with books and a tent,
What delight we could find in the fields.
| The rural muse poems | |