Bright shone the afternoon, say rather burn'd, In floods of molten gold, with all its rich Array of blossoms by that river's side-- Wild camomile, and lychnis in whose cups The bee delights to murmur, harebells blue, And violets breathing fragrance; nor remote The aureate furze, that to the west-winds sigh, Lent its peculiar perfume blandly soft. At times we near'd the wild-duck and her brood In the far angle of some dim-seen pool, Silent and sable, underneath the boughs Of low hung willow; and, at times, the bleat Of a stray lamb would bid us raise our eyes To where it stood above us on the rock, Knee-deep amid the broom--a sportive elf. Enshrined in recollection--sleep those hours So brilliant and so beautiful--the scene So full of pastoral loveliness--the heart With pleasure overflowing--and the sky Pavilion'd over all, an arch of peace-- God with his fair creation reconciled: And oh! to be forgotten only with The last fond thoughts of memory, I behold That grand and gorgeous evening, in whose blaze Homeward with laden paniers we return'd. Through the green woods outshot the level rays Of flooding sunlight, tinging the hoar bark Of the old pine-trees, and in crimson dyes Bathing the waste of flowers that sprang beneath; It was an hour of Paradise restored-- Eden forth mirror'd to the view again, As yet ere Happiness forsook its bowers, Or sinless creatures own'd the sway of death. All was repose--and peace--and harmony; The flocks upon the soft knolls resting lay, Or straying nibbled at the pastures green; Up from its clovery lurking-place, the hare Arose; the pheasant from the coppice stray'd; The cony from its hole disporting leapt; The cattle in the bloomy meadows lay Ruminant; the shy foal scarcely swerved aside At our approach from under the tall tree Of his delight, shaking his forelocks long In wanton play; while, overhead, his hymn, As 'twere to herald the approach of night, With all her gathering stars, the blackbird sang Melodiously, mellifluously, and Earth Look'd up, reflecting back the smiles of Heaven! For Innocence, o'er hill and dale again Seem'd to have spread her mantle, and the voice Of all but joy in grove and glade was hush'd. VII.