PANDON DEAN.
A Song published in Sept. 1776, under the Name of Rosalinda.
When cooling zephyrs wanton play,
Then oft in Pandon Dean I stray;
When sore dispers’d with grief and woe,
Then from a busy world I go;
My mind is calm, my soul serene,
Beneath the Bank in Pandon Dean.
The feather’d race around me sing,
They make the hills and vallies ring;
My sorrow flies, my grief is gone,
I warble with the tuneful throng;
All, all things wear a pleasing mien,
Beneath the Bank in Pandon Dean.
At distance stands an ancient tower,
Which ruin threatens every hour;
I’m struck with reverence at the sight,
I pause and gaze with fond delight;
The antique walls do join the scene,
And makes more lovely Pandon Dean.
Above me stand the towering trees,
While here I feel the gentle breeze;
The water flows by chance around,
And green enamels all the ground:
Which gives new splendour to the scene,
And adds a grace to Pandon Dean.
But when I mount the rising hill,
And there survey the purling rill,
My eye delighted—but I mourn,
To think of winter’s quick return;
With withering winds and frost so keen,
I sighing leave the Pandon Dean.
O spare for once a female pen,
And lash licentious wicked men;
Your conscious cheek need never glow,
If you your talents thus bestow:
Scarce fifteen summers have I seen,
Yet dare to sing of Pandon Dean.