THE FARMER'S WINTER EVENING, A POEM. To the NYMPH I never saw. Philip Morin Freneau Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. N09742 Freneau, Philip Morin, 1752-1832. The American village, a poem. : To which are added, several other original pieces in verse. / By Philip Freneau, A.B. ; [Two lines in Latin from Horace.] New-York Printed by S. Inslee and A. Car, on Moor's Wharf. 1772 M,DCC,LXXII. pp. 18-22. [2], 27, [1] p. ; (4to)

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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 .