The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp. But when the Sun, at noon-tide hour, Sits throned in his highest tow'r; Me, heart-rejoicing Goddess, lead To the tann'd hay-cock in the mead: To mix in rural mood among The nymphs and swains, a busy throng; Or, as the tepid odours breathe, The russet piles to lean beneath: There as my listless limbs are thrown On couch more soft than palace down; I listen to the busy sound Of mirth and toil that hums around; And see the team shrill-tinkling pass, Alternate o'er the furrow'd grass. But ever, after summer show'r, When the bright sun's returning pow'r, With laughing beam has chas'd the storm, And chear'd reviving nature's form; By sweet-brier hedges, bathed in dew, Let me my wholsome path pursue; There issuing forth the frequent snail, Wears the dank way with slimy trail, While as I walk, from pearled bush; The sunny-sparkling drop I brush; And all the landscape fair I view Clad in robe of fresher hue: And so loud the blackbird singe, That far and near the valley rings. From shelter deep of shaggy rock The shepherd drives his joyful flock; From bowering beech the mower blythe With new-born vigour grasps the scythe; While o'er the smooth unbounded meads His last faint gleam the rainbow spreads. But ever against restless heat, Bear me to the rock-arch'd seat, O'er whose dim mouth an ivy'd oak Hangs nodding from the low-brow'd rock; Haunted by that chaste nymph alone, Whose waters cleave the smoothed stone, Which, as they gush upon the ground, Still scatter misty dews around: A rustic, wild, grotesque alcove, Its side with mantling woodbines wove; Cool as the cave where Clio dwells, Whence Helicon's fresh fountain wells; Or noon-tide grott where Sylvan sleeps In hoar Lycæum's piny steeps. Me, Goddess, in such cavern lay, While all without is scorch'd in day; Sore sighs the weary swain, beneath His with'ring hawthorn on the heath; The drooping hedger wishes eve, In vain, of labour short reprieve! Meantime, on Afric's glowing sands Smote with keen heat, the trav'ler stands: Low sinks his heart, while round his eye Measures the scenes that boundless lie, Ne'er yet by foot of mortal worn, Where Thirst, wan pilgrim, walks forlorn. How does he with some cooling wave To slake his lips, or limbs to lave! And thinks, in every whisper low, He hears a bursting fountain flow. Or bear me to yon antique wood, Dim temple of sage Solitude! But still in fancy's mirror seen Some more romantic scene would please, There within a nook most dark, Where none my musing mood may mark; Let me in many a whisper'd rite The Genius old of Greece invite, With that fair wreath my brows to bind, Which for his chosen imps he twin'd,