Portland Gazette, And Maine Advertiser

Poetry.
CONTENT.
O'er moorlands and meadows, rude, barren
and bare,
As wearied I and wearied I roam,
A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,
And leads me o'er lawns to her home.
Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage
had crown'd;
Green rushes were strow'd on the floor;
The casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly
round,
And deck'd the sod seats at her door.
We sat ourselves down at a cooling repast—
Fresh fruit—and she cull'd me the best,
Till thrown from my guard by some glances
the cast,
Love slyly stole into my breast.
I told my soft wishes—she sweetly replied—
Ye virgins her voice was divine—
I've great ones rejected, and rich ones denied;
But take me, fond shepherd, I'm thine.
Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek;
So simple, yet sweet were her charms,
I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,
And lock'd the lov'd maid in my arms.
Now jocund together we tend a few sheep.
And if by yon prattler, the stream,
Reclin'd on her bosom I sink into sleep,
Her image still haunts my dream.
Together we range o'er the slow rising hill,
Delighted with pastoral views;
Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet
distills,
And point out new themes for my muse.
To pomp, or proud titles, she ne'er did aspire;
The temple of humble content;
The cottage peace is well known for her fire,
And the shepherds have nam'd her content.