Page:The Pleasures of Memory (Rogers).djvu/41


 * O'er the still lake the bell of evening toll'd,

And on the moor the shepherd penn'd his fold; And on the green hill's side the meteor play'd; When, hark! a voice sung sweetly thro' the shade. It ceas'd—yet still in fancy sung, Still on each note his captive spirit hung;



Till o'er the mead a cool, sequester'd grot From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot. A crystal water cross'd the pebbled floor, And on the front these simple lines it bore: