Song Song |
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SongSong
Song
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:
Oh bless those holy feet, like angel`s feet;
Oh 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 - ey`d 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.
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