Lures to enchanted halls or bowers,
Where festive Vice consumes his hours.
Her mild and modest looks dispense
The simple charm of innocence;
And a sweet wildness in her eye
Sparkles with young sincerity.—
Lead on, fair guide, ere wakes the dawn,
With thee I'll climb the steepy lawn,
With thee the leafy labyrinths trace,
Where dwells the Genius of the place.—
His large limbs press a primrose bed,
A moss-grown root sustains his head,
And, listening to a Druid's rhymes,
He bends his eye on distant times:
While troops of silvan vassals meet
To cast their garlands at his feet,
And pipe and frisk in rings about,
Or parley with the hunter's shout.
And now a fragrant shower he throws
Of blossoms from his curled brows,
And rising waves his oaken wand,
And bids yon magic scenes expand!—
First blush the hills with orient light,
And pierce the sable veil of night,
Green bends the waving shade above,
And glistering dewdrops gem the grove :
Next shine the shelving lawns around,
Bright threads of silver net the ground;
And down, the entangled brakes among,
The white rill sparkling winds along;
Then, as the pausing zephyrs breathe,
The billowy mist recedes beneath;
Slow as it rolls away unfold
The vale's fresh glories green and gold;