XIV.

No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast,

Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife;
Each season looked delightful, as it past,

To the fond husband, and the faithful wife.
Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life

They never roamed; secure beneath the storm
Which in Ambition's lofty land is rife,

Where peace and love are cankered by the worm Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform.

XV.

The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold,

Was all the offspring of this simple pair.

His birth no oracle or seer foretold:

No prodigy appeared in earth or air, Nor aught that might a strange event declare. You guess each circumstance of EDWIN's birth; The parent's transport, and the parent's care; The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth; And one long summer-day of indolence and mirth.

XVI.

And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy;

Deep thought oft seemed to fix his infant

eye.

Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude, nor toy,
Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy.
Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy;
And now his look was most demurely sad,
And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why.
The neighbours stared and sighed, yet blessed the lad:

Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed

him mad.

XVII.

But why should I his childish feats display?
Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fled;
Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray
Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped,
Or roamed at large the lonely mountain's head;
Or, where the maze of some bewildered stream
To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led,

There would he wander wild, 'till Phoebus' beam,

Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team.

XVIII.

The exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,

To him nor vanity nor joy could bring.

His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would bleed

To work the woe of any living thing,

By trap, or net; by arrow, or by sling;

These he detested, those he scorned to wield:

He wished to be the guardian, not the king,
Tyrant, far less, or traitor, of the field.

And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield.

XIX.

Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine;

And sees, on high, amidst the encircling groves,
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine:
While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join,
And Echo swells the chorus to the skies.

Would Edwin this majestic scene resign

For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies?

Ah! no: he better knows great Nature's charms to prize.

XX.

And oft he traced the uplands, to survey,

When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn,
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain grey,

And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn;
Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn,

Where twilight loves to linger for a while;

And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,

And villager abroad at early toil.

But, lo! the sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean,

smile.

XXI.

And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb,

When all in mist the world below was lost.

What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime, Like shipwrecked mariner on desert coast,

And view the enormous waste of vapour, tost

In billows, lengthening to the horizon round,
Now scooped in gulfs, with mountains now embossed!
And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound,

Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound!

XXII.

In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene.
In darkness, and in storm, he found delight:
Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene
The southern sun diffused his dazzling shene.
Even sad vicissitude amused his soul:

And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,

A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to controul.

XXIII.

ye wild groves, O where is now your bloom!' (The Muse interprets thus his tender thought.) "Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom, 'Of late so grateful in the hour of drought!

Why do the birds, that song and rapture brought

'To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake ? 'Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought! 'For now the storm howls mournful through the brake,

'And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake.