Classic Poem

X.

While in heroic numbers some relate
The amazing turns of wise eternal fate;
Exploits of heroes in the dusty field,
That to their name immortal honour yield;
Grant me, ye powers, fast by the limpid spring
The harmless revels of the plain to sing.
At a rich feast, kept each revolving year,
Their fleecy care when joyful shepherds shear,
A wreath of flowers cull'd from the neighbouring lands
Is all the prize my humble muse demands.
 Now blithesome shepherds, by the early dawn,
Their new shorn flocks drive to the dewy lawn;
While, in a bleating language, each salutes
The welcome morning and their fellow brutes.
Then all prepared for the rural feast,
And in their finest Sunday habits drest;
The crystal brook supplied the mirror's place,
. . . they bathed and viewed their cleanly face,
. . . . . and nymphs resorted to the fields
. . . . . . . . pomp the country yields.
 The place appointed was a spacious vale,
Fann'd always by a cooling western gale,
Which in soft breezes through the meadows stray,
And steals the ripen'd fragrancies away;
With native incense all the air perfumes,
Renewing with its genial breath the blooms.
Here every shepherd might his flocks survey,
Securely roam and take his harmless play;
And here were flowers each shepherdess to grace,
On her fair bosom courting but a place.
 Now in this vale, beneath a grateful shade;
By twining boughs of spreading beeches made,
On seats of homely turf themselves they place,
And cheerfully enjoy'd their rural feast,
Consisting of the product of the fields,
And all the luxury the country yields.
No maddening liquors spoil'd their harmless mirth,
But an untainted spring their thirst allay'd,
Which in meanders through the valley stray'd.
Thrice happy swains who spend your golden days
In country pastime; and when night displays
Her sable shade, to peaceful huts retire;
Can any man a sweeter bliss desire?
In ancient times so pass'd the smiling hour,
When our first parents lived in Eden's bower,
Ere care and trouble were pronounced [our doom,]
Or sin had blasted the creation's blo[om.]

X.

While in heroic numbers some relate
The amazing turns of wise eternal fate;
Exploits of heroes in the dusty field,
That to their name immortal honour yield;
Grant me, ye powers, fast by the limpid spring
The harmless revels of the plain to sing.
At a rich feast, kept each revolving year,
Their fleecy care when joyful shepherds shear,
A wreath of flowers cull'd from the neighbouring lands
Is all the prize my humble muse demands.
 Now blithesome shepherds, by the early dawn,
Their new shorn flocks drive to the dewy lawn;
While, in a bleating language, each salutes
The welcome morning and their fellow brutes.
Then all prepared for the rural feast,
And in their finest Sunday habits drest;
The crystal brook supplied the mirror's place,
. . . they bathed and viewed their cleanly face,
. . . . . and nymphs resorted to the fields
. . . . . . . . pomp the country yields.
 The place appointed was a spacious vale,
Fann'd always by a cooling western gale,
Which in soft breezes through the meadows stray,
And steals the ripen'd fragrancies away;
With native incense all the air perfumes,
Renewing with its genial breath the blooms.
Here every shepherd might his flocks survey,
Securely roam and take his harmless play;
And here were flowers each shepherdess to grace,
On her fair bosom courting but a place.
 Now in this vale, beneath a grateful shade;
By twining boughs of spreading beeches made,
On seats of homely turf themselves they place,
And cheerfully enjoy'd their rural feast,
Consisting of the product of the fields,
And all the luxury the country yields.
No maddening liquors spoil'd their harmless mirth,
But an untainted spring their thirst allay'd,
Which in meanders through the valley stray'd.
Thrice happy swains who spend your golden days
In country pastime; and when night displays
Her sable shade, to peaceful huts retire;
Can any man a sweeter bliss desire?
In ancient times so pass'd the smiling hour,
When our first parents lived in Eden's bower,
Ere care and trouble were pronounced [our doom,]
Or sin had blasted the creation's blo[om.]