Joy fpreads the heart, and, with a general fong,
Spring iffues out, and leads the jolly months along.
In that sweet season, as in bed I lay,

And fought in fleep to pass the night away,
I turn'd my weary'd fide, but still in vain,
Tho full of youthful health, and void of pain :
Cares I had none, to keep me from my rest,
For love had never enter'd in my breast;
I wanted nothing fortune could fupply,
Nor did she flumber till that hour deny.
I wonder'd then, but after found it true,
Much joy had dry'd away the balmy dew:
Seas wou'd be pools, without the brushing air,
To curl the waves; and fure fome little care
Shou'd weary nature so, to make her want repair.

When Chanticleer the second watch had fung, Scorning the scorner fleep, from bed I sprung; And dreffing, by the moon, in loose array, Pass'd out in open air, preventing day,

And fought a goodly grove, as fancy led my way.
Straight as a line in beauteous order stood
Of oaks unfhorn a venerable wood;

Fresh was the grafs beneath, and ev'ry tree,
At distance planted in a due degree,

Their branching arms in air with equal space

Stretch'd to their neighbors with a long embrace:

5

And the new leaves on ev'ry bough were seen,
Some ruddy color'd, fome of lighter green.
The painted birds, companions of the spring,
Hopping from spray to fpray, were heard to fing.
Both eyes
and ears receiv'd a like delight,
Enchanting mufic, and a charming fight.
On Philomel I fix'd my whole defire;
And liften'd for the queen of all the quire;
Fain would I hear her heavenly voice to fing
And wanted yet an omen to the fpring.
Attending long in vain, I took the

way,

Which through a path, but fcarcely printed, lay;
In narrow mazes oft it seem'd to meet,
And look'd, as lightly prefs'd by fairy feet.
Wandring I walk'd alone, for still methought
To some strange end foftrangea path was wrought:
At laft it led me where an arbor stood,

The facred receptacle of the wood:

This place unmark'd, tho oft I walk'd the
In all my progress I had never seen :

green,

And feiz'd at once with wonder and delight,

Gaz'd all around me, new to the transporting fight. 'Twas bench'd with turf, and goodly to be feen, The thick young grafs arose in fresher green : The mound was newly made, no fight could pass Betwixt the nice partitions of the grass;

The well-united fods so closely lay;
And all around the shades defended it from day,
For fycamores with eglantine were spread,

A hedge about the fides, a covering over head.
And fo the fragrant brier was wove between,
The fycamore and flow'rs were mix'd with green,
That nature feem'd to vary the delight;

And fatisfy'd at once the smell and fight.
The mafter workman of the bow'r was known
Through fairy-lands, and built for Oberon ;
Who twining leaves with fuch proportion drew,
They rose by measure, and by rule they grew;
No mortal tongue can half the beauty tell :
For none but hands divine could work fo well.
Both roof and fides were like a parlor made,
A foft recefs, and a cool fummer fhade;
The hedge was fet fo thick, no foreign eye
The perfons plac'd within it could espy :
But all that pafs'd without with ease was seen,
As if nor fence nor tree was plac'd between.
'Twas border'd with a field; and fome was plain
With grafs, and some was fow'd with rising grain.
That (now the dew with fpangles deck'd the
ground)

A fweeter spot of earth was never found.

I look'd and look'd, and still with new delight;
Such joy my foul, fuch pleasures fill'd my fight:
And the fresh eglantine exhal'd a breath,
Whose odors were of pow'r to raise from death.
Nor fullen discontent, nor anxious care,
Ev'n tho brought thither, could inhabit there :
But thence they fled as from their mortal foe;
For this sweet place could only pleasure know.
Thus as I mus'd, I caft afide my eye,
And faw a medlar-tree was planted nigh.
The spreading branches made a goodly show,
And full of opening blooms was ev'ry bough:
A goldfinch there I faw with gawdy pride
Of painted plumes, that hopp'd from fide to fide,
Still pecking as she pass'd; and still she drew
The sweets from ev'ry flow'r, and fuck'd the dew:
Suffic'd at length, she warbl'd in her throat,
And tun'd her voice to many a merry note,
But indiftinct, and neither sweet nor clear,
Yet fuch as footh'd my foul, and pleas'd my ear.
Her fhort performance was no fooner try'd,
When the I fought, the nightingale, reply'd:
So fweet, fo fhrill, fo variously fhe fung,
That the grove echo'd, and the valleys rung:
VOL. III.

And I fo ravifh'd with her heavenly note

I ftood intranc'd, and had no room for thought,
But all o'er-power'd with ecftafy of blifs,

Was in a pleafing dream of paradise ;

At length I wak'd, and looking round the
bow'r

Search'd ev'ry tree, and pry'd on ev'ry flow'r,
If any where by chance I might efpy,
The rural poet of the melody:

For ftill methought the fung not far away:
At last I found her on a laurel fpray.
Close by my fide fhe fat, and fair in fight,
Full in a line, against her oppofite;

Where ftood with eglantine the laurel twin'd;
And both their native fweets were well conjoin'd.

On the green bank I fat, and liften'd long;
(Sitting was more convenient for the fong :)
Nor till her lay was ended could I move,
But with'd to dwell for ever in the grove.
Only methought the time too swiftly pafs'd,
And ev'ry note I fear'd would be the last.
My fight and fmell, and hearing were employ'd,
And all three fenfes in full guft enjoy'd.
And what alone did all the reft furpass,

The sweet poffeffion of the fairy place;