Song - "Fresh from the dewy hill"
Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry year Smiles on my head and mounts his flaming car; Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade, And rising glories beam around my head. My feet are wing'd, while o'er the dewy lawn, I meet my maiden risen like the morn: O bless those holy feet, like angels' feet; O bless those limbs, beaming with heav'nly light. Like as an angel glitt'ring in the sky In times of innocence and holy joy; The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song To hear the music of an angel's tongue. So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear; So when we walk, nothing impure comes near; Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat; Each village seems the haunt of holy feet. But that sweet village where my black-eyed maid Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade, Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire. |