HOPE
.
A
PASTORAL
BALLAD
.
MY
pipe
sounds
a
cheerfuller
note
,
My
crook
is
new
garnish'd
with
flowers
,
This
day
to
sweet
thoughts
I
devote
,
Where
blossom
the
eglantine
bowers
.
My
sheep
unattended
may
stray
Where
clover
impurples
the
plain
,
My
dog
unregarded
may
play
,
Till
morning
rise
on
him
again
.
'Tis
fit
that
they
too
should
partake
Of
the
joy
that
enlivens
my
soul
,
At
night
I'll
repair
to
the
wake
,
And
merrily
quaff
the
full
bowl
.
Just
now
,
as
I
walk'd
thro'
the
grove
,
I
met
my
dear
Delia
there
,
And
told
her
a
tale
of
my
love
,
Which
she
seem'd
with
soft
pleasure
to
hear
.
A
blush
,
like
the
blush
of
the
dawn
,
Stole
over
her
beautiful
cheek
,
Smiles
,
sweeter
than
infants
new-born
,
Told
,
more
than
I
wish'd
her
to
speak
.
I
stole
from
her
hand
a
sweet
kiss
,
Nor
tried
she
to
draw
it
away
,
No
description
comes
up
to
the
bliss
That
reigns
in
my
bosom
to
day
.
Methinks
every
Zephyr
that
blows
Soft
music
conveys
to
my
ear
,
Methinks
every
floweret
that
grows
More
blooming
and
fresh
does
appear
.
The
birds
tune
their
musical
throats
,
And
sing
most
delightfully
sweet
,
In
soft
and
more
delicate
notes
Sweet
Echo
my
sighs
does
repeat
.