Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas Fair, The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there, When Phoebe Dawson gaily cross'd the Green, In haste to see and happy to be seen: Her air, her manners, all who saw admired, Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired; The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd; A native skill her simple robes express'd, As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd; 140 The lads around admired so fair a sight, And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight. Admirers soon of every age she gain'd, Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd; Envy itself could no contempt display, They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd away. Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace; But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour, With secret joy she felt that beauty's power, 150 When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal, That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel.-- At length, the youth, ordain'd to move her breast, Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd; With looks less timid made his passion known, And pleased by manners most unlike her own; Loud though in love, and confident though young; Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue; By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade, He served the 'Squire, and brush'd the coat he made: 160 Yet now, would Phoebe her consent afford, Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board; With her should years of growing love be spent, And growing wealth--she sigh'd and look'd consent. Now, through the lane, up hill, and 'cross the green, (Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen-- Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid. Slow through the meadows roved they many a mile, Toy'd by each bank and trifled at each stile; 170 Where, as he painted every blissful view, And highly colour'd what he strongly drew, The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears, Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic tears.-- Thus pass'd th' allotted hours, till, lingering late, The lover loiter'd at the master's gate; There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay, Till chidden--soothed--entreated--forced away, He would of coldness, though indulged, complain, And oft retire and oft return again; 180 When, if his teasing vex'd her gentle mind, The grief assumed, compell'd her to be kind! For he would proof of plighted kindness crave, That she resented first and then forgave, And to his grief and penance yielded more Than his presumption had required before.-- Ah! fly temptation, youth; refrain! refrain, Each yielding maid and each presuming swain!