Classic Poem

SCENE — A Wood-side on the Brow of a Hill.

Season — Summer ; Time — Forenoon .

B RIGHT fleecy clouds flew scattering o'er the sky
And shorten'd shadows show'd that noon was high
When two young Shepherds, in the upland shade,
Their listless limbs upon the greensward laid.
Surrounding groves the wandering sight confin'd
All, save where, westward, one wide landscape shin'd.
Down in the date were neat inclosures seen,
The winding hedge-row, and the thicket green;
Rich marshland next a glossy level show'd,
And through grey willows silver rivers flow'd:
Beyond, high hills with towers and villas crown'd,
And waving forests, form'd the prospect's bound.
Sweet was the covert where the Swains reclin'd!
There spread the wild rose, there the woodbine twin'd;
There stood green fern; there, o'er the grassy ground,
Sweet camomile and alehoof crept around;
And centuary red and yellow cinquefoil grew,
And scarlet campion, and cyanus blue;
And tufted thyme, and marjoram's purple bloom,
And ruddy strawberries yielding rich perfume.
Gay flies their wings on each fair flower display'd,
And labouring bees a lulling murmur made.
Along the brow a path delightful lay;
Slow by the youths Palemon chanc'd to stray,
A Bard, who often to the rural throng
At vacant hours rehears'd the moral song!
The song the Shepherds crav'd; the Sage replied:
" As late my steps forsook the fountain-side,
Adown the green lane by the beechen grove,
Their flocks young Pironel and Larvon drove;
With us perchance they'll rest awhile." — The Swains
Approach'd the shade; their sheep spread o'er the plains:
Silent they view'd the venerable man,
Whose voice melodious thus the lay began: —
" What Alcon sung where Evesham's vales extend,
I sing; ye Swains, your pleas'd attention lend!
There long with him the rural life I led,
His fields I cultur'd, and his flocks I fed.
Where, by the hamlet road upon the green,
Stood pleasant cots with trees dispers'd between,
Beside his door, as waving o'er his head
A lofty elm its rustling foliage spread,
Frequent he sat; while all the village train
Press'd round his seat, and listen'd to his strain.
And once of fair Benevolence he sung,
And thus the tuneful numbers left his tongue:
" Ye youth of Avon's banks, of Bredon's groves,
Sweet scenes, where Plenty reigns and Pleasure roves,
Woo to your bowers Benevolence the fair,
Kind as your soil, and gentle as your air.
She comes! her tranquil step, and placid eye,
Fierce Rage, fell Hate, and ruthless Avarice fly.
She comes! her heavenly smiles, with powerful charm,
Smoothe Care's rough brow, and rest Toil's weary arm.
She comes! ye Shepherds, importune her stay!
While your fair farms exuberant wealth display,
While herds and flocks their annual increase yield,
And yellow harvests load the fruitful field;
Beneath grim Want's inexorable reign,
Pale Sickness, oft, and feeble Age complain!
Why this unlike allotment, save to show,
That who possess, possess but to bestow "
Palemon ceas'd. — " Sweet is the sound of gales
Amid green osiers in the winding vales;
Sweet is the lark's loud note on sunny hills,
What time fair Morn the sky with fragrance fills,
Sweet is the nightingale's love-soothing strain,
Heard by still waters on the moonlight plain!
But not the gales that through green osiers play,
Nor lark's nor nightingale's melodious lay,
Please like smooth numbers by the Muse inspir'd!
Larvon replied, and homeward all retir'd.