After the Manner of the old English Poets.

Gay trips my nymph along the green retreat,
With frolic, airy steps; and where they go
Fresh florets rise, in twice their wonted glow.
Yellower the sun-beams o'er the meadows fleet,
Or fancies fond possess me. Her light feet,
Glancing along, no other traces show.
They bend not the young grass, that springs to meet
The falling arch of evening's showery bow,
Nor bruise the emmet on her busy way;
And if the downy blow-ball flies its stalk,
So would it fly beneath the gentlest play
Of Western winds, when, throng in tuneful talk,
Amid new leaves, each songster of the grove
Cheers, on her mossy nest his listening love.