36
VERSES.
Not the maid who crown'd with cypreſs
Sweeps along in ſcepter'd pall,
And in ſad and ſolemn accents
Mourns the creſted hero's fall;
But that other ſmiling ſiſter,
With the blue and laughing eye,
Singing, in a lighter meaſure,
Strains of woodland harmony:
All unknown to fame and glory,
Eaſy, blithe and debonair,
Crown'd with flowers, her careleſs treſſes
Looſely floating on the air.
Then, when next the ſtar of evening
Softly ſheds the ſilent dew,
Let me in this ruſtic temple,
Lissy! meet the Muſe and you.
The
