Thou art! but change in every state is near, (So, while the wretched hope, the blest may fear); “Say, where is Laura!”--“That her words must show,” A lass replied; “read this, and thou shalt know!” “What, gone!”--Her friend insisted--forced to go-- 210 Is vex’d, was teased, could not refuse her!--“No?”-- “But you can follow;”--“Yes;”--“The miles are few, The way is pleasant; will you come?--Adieu! Thy Laura!” “No! I feel I must resign The pleasing hope; thou hadst been here, if mine. A lady was it?--Was no brother there? But why should I afflict me if there were? ‘The way is pleasant.’”--What to me the way? I cannot reach her till the close of day. My dumb companion! is it thus we speed? 220 Not I from grief nor thou from toil art freed; Still art thou doom’d to travel and to pine, For my vexation--What a fate is mine! “Gone to a friend, she tells me; I commend Her purpose; means she to a female friend? By Heaven, I wish she suffer’d half the pain Of hope protracted through the day in vain: Shall I persist to see th’ ungrateful maid? Yes, I will see her, slight her, and upbraid. What! in the very hour? She knew the time, 230 And doubtless chose it to increase her crime.” Forth rode Orlando by a river’s side, } Inland and winding, smooth, and full and wide, } That roll’d majestic on, in one soft-flowing tide; } The bottom gravel, flow’ry were the banks, Tall willows, waving in their broken ranks; The road, now near, now distant, winding led By lovely meadows which the waters fed; He pass’d the way-side inn, the village spire, Nor stopp’d to gaze, to question, or admire; 240 On either side the rural mansions stood, } With hedge-row trees, and hills high-crown’d with wood, } And many a devious stream that reach’d the nobler flood. } “I hate these scenes,” Orlando angry cried, “And these proud farmers! yes, I hate their pride. See! that sleek fellow, how he strides along, Strong as an ox, and ignorant as strong; Can yon close crops a single eye detain But his who counts the profits of the grain? And these vile beans with deleterious smell, 250 Where is their beauty? can a mortal tell? These deep fat meadows I detest; it shocks One’s feelings there to see the grazing ox-- For slaughter fatted, as a lady’s smile Rejoices man, and means his death the while. Lo! now the sons of labour! every day Employ’d in toil, and vex’d in every way; Theirs is but mirth assumed, and they conceal, In their affected joys, the ills they feel: I hate these long green lanes; there’s nothing seen 260 In this vile country but eternal green; Woods! waters! meadows! Will they never end? ’Tis a vile prospect.--Gone to see a friend!”--