Two summers since, I saw at Lammas Fair, The sweetest Flower that ever blossom’d there; When _Phœbe Dawson_ gaily cross’d the Green, In haste to see and happy to be seen; Her Air, her Manners, all who saw, admir’d; Courteous though coy and gentle though retir’d; 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; The Lads around admir’d so fair a sight, And _Phœbe_ 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 judg’d a Servant’s Place Preserv’d a Rustic Beauty from disgrace; But yet on Sunday-eve in Freedom’s hour, With secret joy she felt that Beauty’s power; 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 pleas’d 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 serv’d the Squire, and brush’d the Coat he made; Yet now, would _Phœbe_ 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 rov’d they, many a mile, Toy’d by each bank and trifled at each stile; 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 pronounc’d adieu! and yet would stay, Till chidden--sooth’d--intreated--forc’d away; He would of coldness, though indulg’d, complain, And oft retire and oft return again; When, if his teasing vex’d her gentle mind, The Grief assum’d, 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 requir’d before:-- Ah! fly temptation, Youth, refrain! refrain, Each yielding Maid and each presuming Swain!