Hark! ’tis the melody of distant bells That on the wind with pleasing hum rebounds By fitful starts, then musically swells O’er the dim stilly grounds; While on the meadow-bridge the pausing boy Listens the mellow sounds, And hums in vacant joy. Now homeward-bound, the hedger bundles round His evening faggot, and with every stride His leathern doublet leaves a rustling sound, Till silly sheep beside His path start tremulous, and once again Look back dissatisfied, And scour the dewy plain. How sweet the soothing calmness that distills O’er the heart’s every sense its opiate dews, In meek-eyed moods and ever balmy trills! That softens and subdues, With gentle Quiet’s bland and sober train, Which dreamy eve renews In many a mellow strain! I love to walk the fields, they are to me A legacy no evil can destroy; They, like a spell, set every rapture free That cheer’d me when a boy. Play--pastime--all Time’s blotting pen conceal’d, Comes like a new-born joy, To greet me in the field. For Nature’s objects ever harmonize With emulous Taste, that vulgar deed annoys; Which loves in pensive moods to sympathize, And meet vibrating joys O’er Nature’s pleasing things; nor slighting, deems Pastimes, the Muse employs, Vain and obtrusive themes. AUTUMN Syren of sullen moods and fading hues, Yet haply not incapable of joy, Sweet Autumn! I thee hail With welcome all unfeigned; And oft as morning from her lattice peeps To beckon up the sun, I seek with thee To drink the dewy breath Of fields left fragrant then, In solitudes, where no frequented paths But what thy own foot makes betray thine home, Stealing obtrusive there To meditate thy end: By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks, With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge, Which woo the winds to play, And with them dance for joy; And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods, Where water-lilies spread their oily leaves, On which, as wont, the fly Oft battens in the sun; Where leans the mossy willow half way o’er, On which the shepherd crawls astride to throw His angle, clear of weeds That crowd the water’s brim; Or crispy hills, and hollows scant of sward, Where, step by step, the patient lonely boy Hath cut rude flights of stairs To climb their steepy sides; Then track along their feet, grown hoarse with noise, The crawling brook, that ekes its weary speed, And struggles through the weeds With faint and sullen brawl.-- These haunts I long have favoured, more as now With thee thus wandering, moralizing on; Stealing glad thoughts from grief, And happy, though I sigh.