THE FARMER'S WINTER EVENING, A POEM.

To the NYMPH I never saw.

FAR be the pleasures of the day,
And mirth and festive joy from me,
When cold December nips the plains,
Or frozen January reigns.
Far be the hunts-man's noisy horn,
And coursers fleet thro' thickets borne,
Swift as the wind, and far the sight,
Of snowy mountains, sadly white;
But thou, O night, with sober charms,
Shall clasp me in thy sable arms.
For thee I love the winter eve,
The noisy day for thee I leave.
Beneath some mountain's tow'ring height,
In cottage low I hail the night,
Where jovial swains, with heart sincere,
And timely mirth dishearten care:
Each tells his tale, or chaunts a song
Of her for whom he sigh'd so long;
Of CLARA fair, or FLORA coy,
Disdaining still her shepherd boy,
While near the hoary headed sage,
Recalls the days of youthful age,
Describes his course of manly years,
His journey thro' this vale of tears;
How champion he with champions met,
And fiercely they did combat it,
'Till envious night in ebon chair,
Urg'd faster on her chariotteer,
And robb'd him, O for shame, of glory
And feats fit for renown in story. —
Thus spent in tales the ev'ning hour,
And quaffing juice of sober pow'r,
Which handsome KATE with malt did steep,
To lead on balmy visag'd sleep,
While her neat hand the milk pail strains,
A sav'ry supper for the swains.
And now the moon exalted high,
Gives lustre to the earth and sky,
And from the mighty ocean's glass,
Reflects the beauty of her face:
About her orb you may behold,
A thousand stars of burnish'd gold,
Which slowly to the west retire,
And lose a while their glitt'ring fire.

O COULD I here find my abode,
And live within this fancy'd wood,
With thee the weeks and years to pass,
My pretty rural shepherdess;
With thee the cooling spring to sip,
Or live upon thy damask lip:
Then sacred groves, and shades divine,
And all ARCADIA should be mine.
Steep me, steep me some poppies deep
In beechen bowl, to bring on sleep;
Love hath my mind in shackles kept,
Thrice the cock crew, nor once I slept.
O gentle sleep, wrap me in dreams,
Of fields and woods, and running streams;
Of rivers wide, and castles rare,
And be my lovely FLORA there:
A larger draught, a larger bowl
To gratify my drowsy soul;
"A larger draught is yet in store,
Perhaps with this you wake no more."
Then I my lovely maid shall see thee
Drinking the deep streams of LETHE,
Where now dame ARETHUSA scatters
Her soft stream with ALPHEUS 'waters,
To forget her earthly cares,
Lost in LETHE, lost in years!
And I too will quaff the water,
Lest it should be said, O daughter
Of my giddy, wand'ring brain,
I sigh'd for one I've never seen.