THE COUNTRY GIRL.
BY W. WORDSWORTH.
That happy gleam of vernal eyes,
Those locks from summer's golden skies,
That o'er thy brow are shed;
That cheek--a kindling of the morn,
That lip--a rose-bud from the thorn,
I saw; and Fancy sped
To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air,
Of bliss that grows without a care;
Of happiness that never flies--
How can it where love never dies?
Of promise whispering, where no blight
Can reach the innocent delight;
Where Pity to the mind convey'd
TO ----------, TO WHOSE INTERFERENCE I CHIEFLY OWE
THE VERY LIBERAL PRICE GIVEN FOR
When they shall tell, in future times,
Of thousands giv'n for idle rhymes
Like these--the pastime of an hour,
They'll wonder at the lavish taste
That could, like tulip-fanciers, waste
A little fortune on a flower!
Yet wilt not thou, whose friendship set
Such value on the bard's renown;
Yet wilt not thou, my friend, regret
The golden shower thy spell brought down;