So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear; 13
So when we walk, nothing impure comes near;
Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat;
Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.
But that sweet village where my black-ey'd maid 17
Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade,
Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire
Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.
Song
When early morn walks forth in sober grey, 1
Then to my black ey'd maid I haste away;
When evening sits beneath her dusky bow'r.
And gently sighs away the silent hour,
The village bell alarms, away I go, 5
And the vale darkens at my pensive woe.
To that sweet village, where my black ey'd maid
Doth drop a tear beneath the silent shade,
I turn my eyes; and pensive as I go
Curse my black stars and bless my pleasing woe. 10
Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees,
Whisp'ring faint murmurs to the scanty breeze,
I walk the village round; if at her side
A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride,
I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe, 15
That made my love so high and me so low.
O should she e'er prove false, his limbs I'd tear
And throw all pity on the burning air;
I'd curse bright fortune for my mixed lot,
And then I'd die in peace and be forgot. 20
Poetical Sketches, p. 17.
