THE
INVITATION
.
TO
TWO
SISTERS
.
THOUGH
low
is
my
cot
,
and
the
scene
all
around
Unconscious
that
Art
with
rude
Nature
can
play
,
Yet
here
,
even
here
,
it
is
thought
,
may
be
found
Some
fugitive
pleasures
that
happen
to
stray
.
When
Aurora
walks
forth
,
and
collects
her
perfume
,
And
scatters
her
sweets
on
each
innocent
flower
,
Her
eye
can
look
down
just
as
fond
to
illume
The
low
gliding
stream
as
the
high
gilded
tower
:
All
nature
beholding
,
she
smiles
as
she
sees
The
gay
tinkling
rill
,
as
it
plays
through
the
mead
;
—
As
she
looks
at
the
lustre
that
darts
through
the
trees
,
And
rears
into
notice
the
low
trodden
weed
.
If
such
things
to
observe
,
while
beneath
the
dark
oak
,
Can
delight
Nature's
child
,
bid
her
daughters
come
here
;
Bid
them
haste
while
the
Dryads
the
songsters
invoke
,
And
wave
their
green
arms
round
her
children
so
dear
.
For
as
yet
the
rude
catch
from
the
briar
may
be
borne
,
Since
the
rose
that
it
bears
can
still
blush
for
th'
offence
,
Since
we
yet
can
remember
the
harsh
wounding
thorn
Yielded
sweets
that
stray'd
softly
around
every
sense
.
But
soon
yellow
Autumn
the
green
leaves
shall
stain
,
And
gold
gilding-tincture
the
meadows
pervade
;
Though
now
whetting
scythes
the
gay
season
proclaim
,
And
weary
scorch'd
haymakers
long
for
the
shade
.
Yet
Nature
,
still
changing
,
that
season
shall
bring
,
When
the
meads
become
wither'd
and
chill
turn
the
groves
,
When
the
gadding
gay
woodbine
no
longer
shall
cling
To
hang
up
her
garland
on
boughs
that
she
loves
.
With
YOU
,
I
must
own
,
should
the
glow
of
the
plain
Be
chill'd
by
a
breath
,
and
the
sun
haste
away
;
Though
fond
of
the
scene
,
I
no
more
would
complain
,
For
FRIENDS
yield
a
prospect
more
charming
than
May
.
And
without
them
,
how
oft
have
I
sigh'd
as
I
view'd
The
wood-hanging
bank
,
and
the
cottage
so
still
;
Thy
regrets
,
silly
heart
,
were
too
fondly
renew'd
As
I
listen'd
and
heard
the
soft
clack
of
the
mill
.
What
joy
,
would
I
say
,
can
these
beauties
bestow
,
Unless
some
dear
friends
had
the
pleasure
to
share
;
Though
Nature
shed
incense
wherever
I
go
,
Her
gifts
and
her
offerings
for
them
I
would
spare
.
For
,
ah
!
I
have
found
in
the
bosom
alone
Is
the
mansion
of
Peace
;
and
,
wherever
we
stray
,
If
we
make
not
this
cell-living
Goddess
our
own
,
It
matters
not
what
is
the
scene
or
the
day
.
For
Fancy
,
that
fairy
,
will
darken
the
glade
,
And
change
every
object
that
dances
around
,
—
Will
heighten
or
lessen
the
falling
cascade
,
Till
horror
or
grandeur
exists
in
the
sound
.
Yet
still
there's
a
Nymph
with
as
magical
powers
,
Who
only
exhibits
things
just
as
they
are
;
And
she
,
even
she
,
can
hand
round
the
dull
hours
,
Nor
in
search
of
amusement
needs
wander
afar
.
What
though
she
is
rural
,
and
best
loves
the
grove
,
Though
scenes
of
retirement
delight
her
the
most
,
Yet
not
to
one
spot
does
she
fasten
her
love
,
For
easily
pleas'd
,
not
one
pleasure
is
lost
.
She
rambles
about
,
and
I
meet
her
at
eve
;
With
Aurora
I
find
her
ascending
the
hill
;
At
noon
in
the
shade
help
her
chaplets
to
weave
,
All
day
mark
her
steps
,
and
am
near
to
her
still
.
To
such
favour
I've
got
,
that
my
friends
she
will
guide
,
With
promises
firm
,
that
they
shall
not
repent
;
—
That
they
shall
not
be
weary
when
set
by
my
side
,
She
promises
this
—
and
her
name
is
CONTENT
.