ΙΟ How often have I paused on every charm, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade For talking age and whispering lovers made! How often have I blest the coming day, 15 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labor free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed; 20 And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; The dancing pair that simply sought re These round thy bowers their cheerful Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs-and God has given my The swain responsive as the milk-maid share sung, How happy he who crowns in shades like She, wretched matron, forced in age, for these bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, 135 The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; |