To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand,
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves,
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn,
In every elbow and turn,
The filtered tribute of the rough woodlands.
O! hither bend thy feet!
Pour round mine eyes the livelong bleat
Of the thick-fleeced sheep frem wattled folds,
Upon the ridged wolds,
When the first matin-song hath wakened loud