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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
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
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,
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.
DESCRIPTION OF HAMPSTEAD.
A STEEPLE issuing from a leafy rise,