Fresh from the dewy hill， the merry year

    Smiles on my head and mounts his flaming car；

    Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade，

    And rising glories beam around my head.

    My feet are wing'd， while o'er the dewy lawn，

    I meet my maiden¹ risen like the morn：

    O bless those holy feet， like angels' feet；

    O bless those limbs， beaming with heav'nly light.

    Like as an angel glitt'ring in the sky

    In times of innocence² and holy joy；

    The joyful³ shepherd stops his grateful song

    To hear the music of an angel's tongue.

    So when she speaks， the voice of Heaven I hear；

    So when we walk， nothing impure⁴ comes near；

    Each field seems Eden， and each calm retreat；

    Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.

    But that sweet village where my black-eyed maid

    Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade，

    Whene'er I enter， more than mortal fire

    Burns in my soul， and does my song inspire.

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