Echo, in her airy round

O'er the river, rock, and hill,
Cannot catch a single sound,
Save the clack of yonder mill.

Cattle court the zephyrs bland,
Where the streamlet wanders cool;
Or with languid silence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.

But from mountain, dell, or stream,
Not a fluttering zephyr springs:
Fearful lest the noontide beam
Scorch its soft, its silken wings.

Not a leaf has leave to stir,

Nature's lull'd-serene-and still!

Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.

Languid is the landscape round,
Till the fresh descending shower,
Grateful to the thirsty ground,
Raises every fainting flower.

Now the hill-the hedge—is green,
Now the warblers' throats in tune!
Blithsome is the verdant scene,
Brighten'd by the beams of noon!

EVENING.

O'ER the heath the heifer strays
Free (the furrow'd task is done) ;-
Now the village windows blaze,
Burnish'd by the setting sun.