SONG. FRESH FROM THE DEWY HILL, THE MERRY YEAR.

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 maiden risen like the morn.
Oh bless those holy feet, like angels’ feet;
Oh bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light!

Like as an angel glittering in the sky
In times of innocence and holy joy;
The joyful 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 impure 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.