Written
while
the
Author
sat
on
a
COOK
of
HAY
.
Fair
Daphne
to
the
meadow
went
,
To
tedd
the
new
mown
hay
;
She
went
alone
,
For
well
'twas
known
,
No
shepherd
went
that
way
.
And
when
she
to
the
meadow
came
,
And
cast
her
eyes
around
,
She
saw
green
hills
,
And
purling
rills
,
The
fertile
spot
surround
.
The
alders
and
the
poplars
tall
,
Did
form
a
circling
shade
;
The
cooling
breeze
,
Stole
by
the
trees
,
Along
the
open
glade
.
Beneath
the
shade
a
murm'ring
brook
,
Pursues
its
crooked
way
;
There
fishes
glide
,
In
conscious
pride
,
And
shining
scales
display
.
The
beauteous
blooming
gifts
of
spring
,
Are
fallen
from
the
thorn
;
But
the
wild
rose
,
More
beauteous
grows
,
The
willow
tree
t'
adorn
.
The
sun
that
o'er
Arabian
fields
,
Bids
spicy
odours
play
;
By
the
same
pow'r
,
Doth
in
an
hour
,
Raise
sweetness
from
the
hay
.
The
choristers
from
ev'ry
grove
,
In
num'rous
bands
appear
;
From
spray
to
spray
,
Tune
forth
their
lay
,
To
charm
the
virgin's
ear
.
But
yet
amidst
this
pleasing
scene
,
Our
nymph
doth
sullen
prove
;
Such
things
says
she
,
Might
pleasure
me
,
If
I
was
not
in
love
.
To
cheerful
strains
I'll
not
aspire
,
Since
fate
that
led
me
here
,
Forbids
my
swain
,
To
tread
this
plain
,
I'll
drop
a
silent
tear
.