Song

Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry Year Smiles on my head, and mounts his flaming car: Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade, And rising glories beam around my head.

My feet are winged, while o’er the dewy lawn I meet my maiden risen like the morn. O bless those holy feet, like angel’s feet; O bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light!

Like as an angel glittering in the sky In times of innocence and holy joy; The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song To hear the music of an angel’s tongue.

So, when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear; 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-eyed maid 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.