THE PIEDMONTESE. Ann Radcliffe (née Ward) 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. Radcliffe, Ann Ward, 1764-1823. The Poems of Mrs. Ann Radcliffe. London printed by and for J. Smith, Princes Street 1816 pp. 54-55. 118p. [Radcliffe's poems only, pp. 1-95]

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THE PIEDMONTESE . Ah , merry swain , who laugh'd along the vales , And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring , Why leave your cot , your woods , and thymy gales , And friends belov'd , for aught that wealth can bring ? He goes to wake o'er moon-light seas the string , Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails ! Yet oft of home his simple carols sing , And his steps pause , as the last Alp he scales . Once more he turns to view his native scene — Far , far below , as roll the clouds away , He spies his cabin ' mid the pine-tops green , The well-known woods , clear brook , and pastures gay ; And thinks of friends and parents left behind , Of sylvan revels , dance , and festive song ; And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind ; And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong ! Thus went the swain , till mountain shadows fell , And dimm'd the landscape to his aching sight ; And must he leave the vales he loves so well ? Can foreign wealth , and shows , his heart delight ? No , happy vales ! your wild rocks still shall hear His pipe , light sounding on the morning breeze ; Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear , And watch at eve beneath the western trees . Away , Venetian gold — your charm is o'er ! And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow'rs , Where , through the leaves , his cottage light once more Guides him to happy friends , and jocund hours . Ah , merry swain ! that laughs along the vales , And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring , Your cot , your woods , your thymy-scented gales — And friends belov'd — more joy than wealth can bring !