James Beattie

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
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At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.

Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale,
And sing enamour'd of the nut-brown maid.

Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale,
And sing enamour'd of the nut-brown maid.

No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast,
Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife;
Each season read more

No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast,
Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife;
Each season looked delightful as it past,
To the fond husband and the faithful wife.

'Twas thus by the glare of false science betray'd,
That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind.

'Twas thus by the glare of false science betray'd,
That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind.

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
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Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
With here and there a violet bestrown,
Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave;
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.