And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess bring To archèd walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude axe, with heavèd stroke, Was never heard the nymphs to daunt Or fright them from their hallow’d haunt. There in close covert by some brook Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day’s garish eye, While the bee with honey’d thigh That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such concert as they keep, Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in aery stream Of lively portraiture display’d, Softly on my eyelids laid: And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister’s pale, And love the high-embowèd roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light: There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced quire below In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth show, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live.
[ JOCK OF HAZELDEAN]
I ‘Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? Why weep ye by the tide? I’ll wed ye to my youngest son, And ye sall be his bride: And ye sall be his bride, ladie, Sae comely to be seen’— But aye she loot the tears down fa’ For Jock of Hazeldean.
II ‘Now let this wilfu’ grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale; Young Frank is chief of Errington, And lord of Langley-dale; His step is first in peaceful ha’, His sword in battle keen’— But aye she loot the tears down fa’ For Jock of Hazeldean.
III ‘A chain of gold ye sall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair; Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair; And you, the foremost o’ them a’, Shall ride our forest queen’— But aye she loot the tears down fa’ For Jock of Hazeldean.