Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/165

 When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd, and pure As is the lily, or the mountain snow. The modest virtues mingled in her eyes, Still on the ground dejected, darting all Their humid beams into the blooming flowers: Or when the mournful tale her mother told, Of what her faithless fortune promis'd once, Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace Sat fair proportion'd on her polish'd limbs, Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire, Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is when unadorn'd adorn'd the most. Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, Recluse amid the close-embowering woods. As in the hollow breast of Appenine, Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, A myrtle, rises, far from human eye, And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild; So flourish'd blooming, and unseen by all, The sweet ; till, at length, compell'd By strong Necessity's supreme command, With smiling patience in her looks, she went To glean field. The pride of swains was, the generous, and the rich; Who led the rural life in all its joy, And elegance, such as Arcadian song Transmits from ancient uncorrupted times; When tyrant custom had not shackled Man, But free to follow Nature was the mode. He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes Amusing, chanc'd beside his reaper-train To walk, when poor drew his eye; Unconscious of her power, and turning quick With