Thus let my feet unwearied stray;
Nor satisfied with one survey,
When morn surveys with doubtful light,
And Phebe pales her lamp of night,
Still let me wander forth anew,
And print my footsteps on the dew,
What time the swain with ruddy cheek
Prepares to yoke his oxen meek,
And early drest in neat array
The milk-maid chanting shrill her lay,
Comes abroad with milking pail;
And the sound of distant flail
Gives the ear a rough good-morrow,
And the lark from out his furrow
Soars upright on matin wings,
And at the gate of heaven sings.