With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
Released from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve, with pensive look,
Whistling lorn ditties, leans upon his crook;
Or starting, passes with hope-mingled dread
To list the much-lov’d maid’s accustom’d tread;
She, vainly mindful of her dame’s command,
Loiters, the long-fill’d pitcher in her hand.
Unboasted stream! thy fount with pebbled falls