Yet bark of dog, nor village cock,
That spoke the morning near;
Nor gray-light trembling on the rock,
Her 'nighted mind could cheer.

The whirling flail, and clacking mill
Wake with the early day;
And careless children, loud and shrill,
With new-made snow-balls play.

And as she pass'd each cottage door,
They did their gambols cease;
And old men shook their locks so hoar,
And wish'd her spirit peace.

For sometimes slow; and sometimes fast,
She held her wav'ring pace;
Like early spring's inconstant blast,
That ruffles evening's face.

At length with weary feet she came,
Where in a shelt'ring wood,
Whose master bore no humble name,
A stately castle stood.

The open gate, and smoking fires,
Which cloud the air so thin;
And shrill bell tinkling from the spires,
Bespoke a feast within.