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Flow'd down the dale; the voices of the grove,
And every winged warbler of the air,

Sung over head; and there was joy in heav'n.
Risen with the dawn, the bride and bridal-maids
Stray'd through the woods, and o'er the vales, in quest
Of flowers and garlands, and sweet-smelling herbs,
To strew the bridegroom's way, and deck his bed.

Fair in the bosom of the level lake

Rose a green island, cover'd with a spring
Of flowers perpetual, goodly to the eye,
And blooming from afar. High in the midst,
Between two fountains, an enchanted tree
Grew ever green, and every month renew'd
Its blooms and apples of Hesperian gold.
Here every bride (as ancient poets sing).
Two golden apples gather'd from the bough,
To give the bridegroom in the bed of love,
The pledge of nuptial concord and delight
For many a coming year. Levina now
Had reach'd the isle, with an attendant maid,
And pull'd the mystic apples, pull'd the fruit;
But wish'd and long'd for th' enchanted tree.
Not fonder sought the first created fair
The fruit forbidden of the mortal tree,
The source of human woe. Two plants arose
Fair by the mother's side, with fruits and flow'rs

In miniature. One, with audacious hand,
In evil hour she rooted from the ground.
At once the island shook, and shrieks of woe
At times were heard, amid the troubled air:

Her whole frame shook, the blood forsook her face,
Her knees knock'd, and her heart within her died..
Trembling and pale, and boding woes to come,
They seiz'd the boat, and hurried from the isle.

And now they gain'd the middle of the lake,
And saw th' approaching land: now, wild with joy,
They row'd, they flew. When lo! at once effus'd,
Sent by the angry demon of the isle,

A whirlwind rose: it lash'd the furious lake
To tempest, o'erturn'd the boat, and sunk
The fair Levina to a watry tomb.

Her sad companions, bending from a rock,
Thrice saw her head, and supplicating hands
Held up
to Heav'n, and heard the shriek of death:
Then overhead the parting billow clos'd,
And op❜d no more. Her fate in mournful lays
The Muse relates; and sure each tender maid
For her shall heave the sympathetic sigh,
And haply my Eumelia, (for her soul
Is pity's self) as, void of household cares,
Her evening walk she bends beside the lake,

Which yet retains her name, shall sadly drop
A tear, in memory of the hapless maid;

And mourn with me the sorrows of the youth,
Whom from his mistress death did not divide.
Rob'd of the calm possession of his mind,
All night he wander'd by the sounding shore,
Long looking o'er the lake; and saw at times
The dear, the dreary ghost of her he lov'd:
Till love and grief subdued his manly prime,
And brought his youth with sorrow to the grave.

I knew an aged swain, whose hoary head Was bent with years, the village-chronicle, Who much had seen, and from the former times Much had receiv'd. He, hanging o'er the hearth In winter evenings, to the gaping swains, And children circling round the fire, would tell Stories of old, and tales of other times. Of Lomond and Levina he would talk; And how of old, in Britain's evil days, When brothers against brothers drew the sword Of civil rage, the hostile hand of war Ravag'd the land, gave cities to the sword, And all the country to devouring fire. Then these fair forests and Elysian scènes, In one great conflagration, flam'd to heav'n.

Barren and black, by swift degrees arose
A muirish fen; and hence the labouring hind,
Digging for fuel, meets the mouldering trunks
Of oaks, and branchy antlers of the deer.

Now sober Industry, illustrious pow'r! Hath rais'd the peaceful cottage, calm abode Of innocence and joy: now, sweating, guides The shining ploughshare; tames the stubborn soil; Leads the long drain along th' unfertile marsh; Bids the bleak hill with vernal verdure bloom, The haunt of flocks; and clothes the barren heath With waving harvests, and the golden grain.

Fair from his hand behold the village rise, In rural pride, 'mong intermingled trees! Above whose aged tops the joyful swains, At even-tide, descending from the hill, With eye enamour'd, mark the many wreaths Of pillar'd smoke, high-curling to the clouds. The streets resound with Labour's various voice, Who whistles at his work. Gay on the green, Young blooming boys, and girls with golden hair, Trip nimble-footed, wanton in their play, The village hope. All in a reverend row, Their grey-hair'd grandsires, sitting in the sun,

Before the gate, and leaning on the staff,

The well-remember'd stories of their youth Recount, and shake their aged locks with joy.

How fair a prospect rises to the eye, Where beauty vies in all her vernal forms, For ever pleasant, and for ever new! Swells th' exulting thought, expands the soul, Drowning each ruder care: a blooming train Of bright ideas rushes on the mind: Imagination rouses at the scene;

And backward, through the gloom of ages past,
Beholds Arcadia, like a rural queen,

Encircled with her swains and rosy nymphs,
The mazy dance conducting on the green.
Nor yield to old Arcadia's blissful vales
Thine, gentle Leven! Green on either hand
Thy meadows spread, unbroken of the plough,
With beauty all their own. Thy fields rejoice
With all the riches of the golden year.
Fat on the plain, and mountain's sunny side,
Large droves of oxen, and the fleecy flocks,
Feed undisturb'd; and fill the echoing air
With music, grateful to the master's ear.
The traveller stops, and gazes round and round
O'er all the scenes, that animate his heart

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