And happily I have arrived at last
Unto the wished haven of my bliss. 
              Taming of the Shrew.

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It is the Soul that sees:  the outward eyes
Present the object, but the Mind descries;
And thence delight, disgust, or cool indiff’rence rise: 
When minds are joyful, then we look around,
And what is seen is all on fairy ground;
Again they sicken, and on every view
Cast their own dull and melancholy hue;
Or, if absorb’d by their peculiar cares,
The vacant eye on viewless matter glares,
Our feelings still upon our views attend,
And their own natures to the objects lend: 
Sorrow and joy are in their influence sure,
Long as the passion reigns th’ effects endure;
But Love in minds his various changes makes,
And clothes each object with the change he takes;
His light and shade on every view he throws,
And on each object what he feels bestows. 
   Fair was the morning, and the month was June,
When rose a Lover;—­love awakens soon: 
Brief his repose, yet much he dreamt the while
Of that day’s meeting, and his Laura’s smile: 
Fancy and love that name assign’d to her,
Call’d Susan in the parish-register;
And he no more was John—­his Laura gave
The name Orlando to her faithful slave. 
   Bright shone the glory of the rising day,
When the fond traveller took his favourite way;
He mounted gaily, felt his bosom light,
And all he saw was pleasing in his sight. 
   “Ye hours of expectation, quickly fly,
And bring on hours of bless’d reality;
When I shall Laura see, beside her stand,
Hear her sweet voice, and press her yielded hand.” 
   First o’er a barren heath beside the coast
Orlando rode, and joy began to boast. 
   “This neat low gorse,” said he, “with golden bloom,
Delights each sense, is beauty, is perfume;
And this gay ling, with all its purple flowers,
A man at leisure might admire for hours;
This green-fringed cup-moss has a scarlet tip,
That yields to nothing but my Laura’s lip;
And then how fine this herbage! men may say
A heath is barren; nothing is so gay: 
Barren or bare to call such charming scene
Argues a mind possess’d by care and spleen.” 
   Onward he went, and fiercer grew the heat,
Dust rose in clouds before the horse’s feet;
For now he pass’d through lanes of burning sand,
Bounds to thin crops or yet uncultured land;
Where the dark poppy flourish’d on the dry
And sterile soil, and mock’d the thin-set rye. 
   “How lovely this!” the rapt Orlando said;
“With what delight is labouring man repaid! 
The very lane has sweets that all admire,
The rambling suckling, and the vigorous brier;
See! wholesome wormwood grows beside the way,
Where dew-press’d yet the dog-rose bends the spray;
Fresh herbs the fields, fair shrubs the banks adorn,
And snow-white bloom falls flaky from the thorn;