On thy romantic banks, have my wild strains
(Not yet forgot amidst my native plains)
While thou hast sweetly gurgled down the vale,
Filled up the pause of love’s delightful tale!
While, ever as she read, the conscious maid,
By faultering voice and downcast looks betray’d,
Would blushing on her lover’s neck recline,
And with her finger—point the tenderest line!’
Mæviad, pp. 194, 202.
Yet the author assures us just before, that in these ‘wild strains’ ‘all was plain.’