But then, the late weather, I think, had it's merits, And might have induced you to look at one's spirits; We hadn't much thunder and lightning, I own; But the rains might have led you to walk out of town; And what made us think your desertion still stran ger, The roads were so bad, there was really some dan ger ; At least where I live; for the nights were so groping, The rains made such wet, and the paths are so sloping, That few, unemboldened by youth or by drinking, Came down without lanthorns,-nor then without shrinking And really, to see the bright spots come and go, As the path rose or fell, was a fanciful shew. Like fairies they seemed, pitching up from their nooks, And twinkling upon us their bright little looks ; Or if there appeared but a single, slow light, It seemed Polyphemus, descending by night To walk in his anguish about the green places, And see where his mistress lay dreaming of Acis. I fancy him now, coming just where she sleeps ; creeps ;The moon slips from under the dark clouds, and throws A light, through the leaves, on her smiling repose. There, there she lies, bower'd ;-a slope for her bed; One branch, like a hand, reaches over her head; Half naked, half shrinking, with side-swelling grace, A crook's 'twixt her bosom, and crosses her face, I The crook of her shepherd ;--and close to her lips Lies the Pan-pipe he blows, which in sleeping she sips; The giant's knees totter, with passions diverse; Ah, how can he bear it! Ah, what could be worse! He's ready to cry out, for anguish of heart; And tears himself off, lest she wake with a start. a SONNETS. DESCRIPTION OF HAMPSTEAD. A STEEPLE issuing from a leafy rise, through, |