I will meet thee on the hill, Where, with printless footsteps still, The morning in her buskin gray Springs upon her eastern way; While the frolic zephyrs stir, Playing with the gossamer, And, on ruder pinions borne, Shake the dewdrops from the thorn. There, as o'er the fields we pass, Brushing with hasty feet the grass, We will startle from her nest The lively lark with speckled breast, And hear the floating clouds among Her gale-transported matin song, Or on the upland stile, embower'd With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd, Will sauntering sit, and listen still To the herdsman's oaten quill, Wafted from the plain below; Or the heifer's frequent low; Or the milkmaid in the grove, Singing of one that died for love. Or when the noontide heats oppress, We will seek the dark recess, Where, in the embower'd translucent stream, The cattle shun the sultry beam, And o'er us on the marge reclined, The drowsy fly her horn shall wind, While echo, from her ancient oak, Shall answer to the woodman's stroke; Or the little peasant's song, Wandering lone the glens among, His artless lip with berries dyed, And feet through ragged shoes descried. But oh! when evening's virgin queen Sits on her fringed throne serene, And mingling whispers rising near Steal on the still reposing ear; While distant brooks decaying round, Augment the mix'd dissolving sound, And the zephyr flitting by Whispers mystic harmony, We will seek the woody lane, By the hamlet, on the plain, Where the weary rustic nigh Shall whistle his wild melody, And the croaking wicket oft Shall echo from the neighbouring croft; And as we trace the green path lone, With moss and rank weeds overgrown, We will muse on penbive lore? Till the full soul, brimming o'er, Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear, Embodied in a quivering tear. Or else, serenely silent, sit By the brawling rivulet, Which on its calm unruffled breast Rears the old mossy arch impressed, That clasps its secret stream of glass, Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet, We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid The rich vermilion slowly fade; Or catch, faint twinkling from afar The first glimpse of the eastern star; Fair vesper, mildest lamp of light, That heralds in imperial night: Meanwhile, upon our wondering ear, Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear, The distant sounds of pastoral lute, Invoking soft the sober suit Of dimmest darkness--fitting well With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, (So erst did music's silver tone Wake slumbering chaos on his throne). And haply then, with sudden swell, Shall roar the distant curfew bell, While in the castle's mouldering tower The hooting owl is heard to pour Her melancholy song, and scare Dull silence brooding in the air. Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car Black-suited night drives on from far, And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear, Arrests the waxing darkness drear, And summons to her silent call, Sweeping, in their airy pall,