Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/30

 Look upon that flow'ry plain, How the sheep surround their swain, How they crowd to hear his strain! All careless with his legs across, Leaning on a bank of moss, He spends his empty hours at play, Which fly as light as down away. And there behold a bloomy mead, A silver stream, a willow shade, Beneath the shade a fisher stand, Who, with the angle in his hand, Swings the nibbling fry to land. In blushes the descending sun Kisses the streams, while slow they run; And yonder hill remoter grows, Or dusky clouds do interpose. The fields are left, the labouring hind His weary oxen does unbind; And vocal mountains, as they low, Re-echo to the vales below; The jocund shepherds piping come, And drive the herd before them home; And now begin to light their fires, Which send up smoke in curling spires; While with light hearts all homeward tend, To Aberglasney I descend. But, oh! how bless'd would be the day Did I with Clio pace my way, And not alone and solitary stray.