She left the cave, nor mark'd the stranger there;
Her pastoral beauty, and her artless air
Had breath'd a soft enchantment o'er his soul!
In every nerve he felt her blest controul!
What pure and white-wing'd agents of the sky,
Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy,
Inform congenial spirits when they meet?
Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet!
FLORIO, with fearful joy, pursued the maid,
Till thro' a vista's moonlight-checquer'd shade,
Where the bat circled, and the rooks repos'd,
(Their wars suspended, and their councils clos'd)
An antique mansion burst in awful state,
A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate.
Nor paus'd he there. The master of the scene
Saw his light step imprint the dewy green;
And, slow-advancing, hail'd him as his guest,
Won by the honest warmth his looks express'd,
He wore the rustic manners of a 'Squire;
Age had not quench'd one spark of manly fire;
But giant Gout had bound him in her chain,
And his heart panted for the chase in vain.
Yet here Remembrance, sweetly-soothing power!
Wing'd with delight Confinement's lingering hour.
The fox's brush still emulous to wear,
He scour'd the county in his elbow-chair;
And, with view-halloo, rous'd the dreaming hound,
That rung, by starts, his deep-ton'd music round.
Long by the paddock's humble pale confin'd,
His aged hunters cours'd the viewless wind: