She looked upon the green sward, where
      A student lay at leisure: 
    “What do you there, young sir, so fair?”
      “Come, play with me, my treasure!”

A third seems to have been written in the South, perhaps upon the shores of one of the Italian lakes—­Como or Garda.

THE MULBERRY-GATHERER.

No. 25.

    In the summer’s burning heat,
    When the flowers were blooming sweet,
    I had chosen, as ’twas meet,
    ’Neath an olive bough my seat;
    Languid with the glowing day,
    Lazy, careless, apt for play.

    Stood the tree in fields where grew
    Painted flowers of every hue,
    Grass that flourished with the dew,
    Fresh with shade where breezes blew;
    Plato, with his style so rare,
    Could not paint a spot more fair.

    Runs a babbling brook hard by,
    Chants the nightingale on high;
    Water-nymphs with song reply. 
    “Sure, ’tis Paradise,” I cry;
    For I know not any place
    Of a sweeter, fresher grace.

    While I take my solace here,
    And in solace find good cheer,
    Shade from summer, coolness dear,
    Comes a shepherd maiden near—­
    Fairer, sure, there breathes not now—­
    Plucking mulberries from the bough.

    Seeing her, I loved her there: 
    Venus did the trick, I’ll swear! 
    “Come, I am no thief, to scare,
    Rob, or murder unaware;
    I and all I have are thine,
    Thou than Flora more divine!”

    But the girl made answer then: 
    “Never played I yet with men;
    Cruel to me are my kin: 
    My old mother scolds me when
    In some little thing I stray:—­
    Hold, I prithee, sir, to-day!”

A fourth, consisting of a short conventional introduction in praise of Spring, followed by a dialogue between a young man and a girl, in which the metre changes for the last two stanzas, may be classed among the pastorals, although it is a somewhat irregular example of the species.

THE WOOING.

No. 26.

    All the woods are now in flower,
    Song-birds sing in field and bower,
    Orchards their white blossoms shower: 
    Lads, make merry in Love’s hour!

    Sordid grief hath flown away,
    Fervid Love is here to-day;
    He will tame without delay
    Those who love not while they may.

He.
    “Fairest maiden, list to me;
    Do not thus disdainful be;
    Scorn and anger disagree
    With thy youth, and injure thee.

    “I am weaker than thou art;
    Mighty Love hath pierced my heart;
    Scarce can I endure his dart: 
    Lest I die, heal, heal my smart!”

She.
    “Why d’you coax me, suitor blind? 
    What you seek you will not find;
    I’m too young for love to bind;
    Such vain trifles vex my mind.