Originally published in The Keepsake for 1828 (Hurst, Chance, and Co.; Nov 1827).
Aye beautiful, thou dark blue sky!
With thy white clouds wandering by,
Fill'd with those sweet showers, that take
Summer by surprise, and wake
Lovelier life in every flower
Drooping with noon's southern hour.
There are stately trees, whose shade,
On the pleasant green grass laid,
Makes a cool and lonely home,
Where the youthful bard might come
Dreaming dreams, the bright, the brief,
Flitting with each falling leaf.
On yon wild and distant heath,
Thousand buds have bloom and breath;
Cowslips, with their golden chime,
Where the bee rings summer time;
Violets, the deep, the blue,
Like the soft eyes wandering through
Shadowy lash, and drooping lid,
But too lovely to be hid;
And that wilding rose so fair,
As those fleeting blushes are
Waken'd by some gentle tale
On a cheek which else were pale.
Singing its own sweet low song,
Runs yon rippling brook along;
Like the far-off echo dying
Of some wind-lute's lonely sighing.
Well, fair Peasant Girl, dost thou,
With thy clear and open brow,
Thy fresh cheek, and happy eyes,
Suit the scene that round thee lies.
Well may those, whose forced content
Is in crowded cities pent,
Envy thine, and wish to be
Free on the free heath with thee.
Oh for birdlike wings to bear
To some lonely valley, where
I might dwell from all apart,
Brooding over mine own heart!
Bygone festivals should be
Fairy pageantry to me.
In the waving of the flowers,
In the light of starry hours,
I would see the lighted room,
With the young cheek's burning bloom;
And the bright hair's sunny curls,
Or the darker bound with pearls;
And the white and meteor hand
Gleaming in the saraband.
Then a falling leaf should break
My fair dream, and I would wake,
Musing over all I know
Of such vain and outward show:
Where the youngest lip is seal'd,
And the beating heart conceal'd;
Where each word's a meteor-ray,
Meant to mislead or to betray.
Oh! farewell to scenes like these!
Hopes that lure, and truths that freeze!
Give me that wind's fragrant breath;
Careless range o'er yonder heath;
Short and dreamless slumber made,
Where yon hill-side casts its shade
Mid the small flowers blossoming,
Lull'd by music from the spring.
Why, oh why, may this not be?
Peasant Girl! I envy thee.