THE FLIGHT OF THE WOOD-NYMPHS. 441 



And the rude soil still bears the tender wilding, 



There dwell the rural deities. They love 



The moss-grown trees and rocks, the flowery knoll, 



The tangled wildwood, and the bower of ferns. 



They fill each scene with beauty, and they prompt 



The echoes to repeat the low of herds 



And bleat of tender flocks. The voice of him 



Who drives his team afield ; the joyous laugh 



Of children, when on pleasant days they come 



To take from gentle Spring her gift of flowers, 



Are music to their ears. All these they love ; 



But shun the place where wealth and art have joined 



To shut out Nature from her own domains, 



Or dress her in the flaunting robes of fashion. 



Wouldst thou retain them ? keep a humble heart, 



Nor in their temples seek to show thy pride, 



Or near their altars to parade thy wealth ; 



Then may they come and dwell with thee as once 



With simple shepherdess and rural swain. 



19* 



