James Grahame

How pleasant came thy rushing, silver Tweed! Upon my ear when, after roaming long In southern plains, I've reach'd thy lovely bank! How bright, renowned Sark, thy little stream, Like ray of column'd light chasing a shower, Would cross my …

Nature gives a parting smile. As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods A second blow of many flowers appears, Flowers faintly ting'd and breathing no perfume. But fruits, not blossoms, form …

How still the morning of the hallow'd day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.