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Echo, in her airy round
O’er the river, rock, and hill, Cannot catch a single sound,
Save the clack of yonder mill. Cattle court the zephyrs bland,
Where the streamlet wanders cool; Or with languid silence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.
Not a fluttering zephyr springs:
Scorch its soft, its silken wings. Not a leaf has leave to stir,
Nature's lull'd-serene—and still ! Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill. Languid is the landscape round,
Till the fresh descending shower, Grateful to the thirsty ground,
Raises every fainting flower. Now the hill-the hedge-is green,
Now the warblers' throats in tune! Blithsome is the verdant scene,
Brighten'd by the beams of noon!
O’ER the heath the heifer strays
Free (the furrow'd task is done);Now the village windows blaze,
Burnish'd by the setting sun.