Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/205

179 Let us revert, and place before our thoughts

The face which rural Solitude might wear

To the unenlightened Swains of pagan Greece.

—In that fair Clime, the lonely Herdsman, stretched

On the soft grass through half a summer's day,

With music lulled his indolent repose:

And, in some fit of weariness, if he,

When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear

A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds

Which his poor skill could make, his Fancy fetched,

Even from the blazing Chariot of the Sun,

A beardless Youth, who touched a golden lute,

And filled the illumined groves with ravishment.

The nightly Hunter, lifting up his eyes

Towards the crescent Moon, with grateful heart

Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed

That timely light, to share his joyous sport:

And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs,

Across the lawn and through the darksome grove,

(Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes

By echo multiplied from rock or cave)

Swept in the storm of chase, as Moon and Stars

Glance rapidly along the clouded heavens,