THE Fortunate Roam

O'er moorlands and mountains, rude, barren and bare, As wilder'd and wearied I roam, A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair, And leads me o'er lawns to her home.

Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd, Green rushes were strowed on the floor, Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round, And deck'd the sod seat at her door.

We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast, Fresh fruits—and she culled me the best; While thrown from my guard, by some glances she cast, Love slily stole into my breast.

I told my soft wishes—she sweetly replied, With a look and an accent divine, I've rich ones rejected and great ones denied, But—take me, fond shepherd, I'm thine.