WHEN early morn walks forth in sober grey,  
Then to my black-eyed maid I haste away;  
When evening sits beneath her dusky bow’r,  
And gently sighs away the silent hour,  
The village bell alarms, away I go,      
And the vale darkens at my pensive woe.  
To that sweet village, where my black-eyed maid  
Doth drop a tear beneath the silent shade,  
I turn my eyes; and pensive as I go  
Curse my black stars and bless my pleasing woe.      
Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees,  
Whisp’ring faint murmurs to the scanty breeze,  
I walk the village round; if at her side  
A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride,  
I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe,  
That made my love so high and me so low.  
O should she e’er prove false, his limbs I’d tear  
And throw all pity on the burning air;  
I’d curse bright fortune for my mixèd lot,  
And then I’d die in peace and be forgot.

Poetical Sketches

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