Page:The Poetical Works of Thomas Parnell (1833).djvu/37

Rh Has bath'd them in its soft celestial dew, Rise from their rest (ere the blue morning break From the fresh heaven, or early breezes wake, Scattering the glist'ning drops from off the thorn, Or list'ning in the copse the hunter's horn); And duly as the sun, and day by day, Tread the same path through life's unwearied way; Their frugal virtues wisdom's eye admires, Where prudence guards what industry acquires. The glassy brook—the bee-hive at the door— The golden sheaf—the garden's fragrant store, Their little wants supply, they ask no more. While leisure loves in these sequester'd bowers The soft oblivion of the silent hours. And are there not who oft have cried in vain, "Ah, give to me my russet weeds again!" See, bending o'er her wheel with patient care, Her cheek just shaded by her nut-brown hair, Content the cottage maid is singing there. How fresh for her the vernal zephyr blows! For her how fair the purple morning glows! Her's the green earth in all its beauty given, And her's the bright transparent dome of heaven. Tired nature rests—the sun declines his rays, Round the warm hearth the evening fagots blaze. Stretch'd by the cheerful fire, the genial board, They wish not Russell's wealth, nor Gideon's hoard: Nor envy they, by summer fountain laid, The lords of Chatsworth, or of Ragley's shade.