72
THE ORIGIN OF SONG-WRITING.
And where the Tweed's pure current glides,
Or Liffy rolls her limpid tides ;
Or Thames his oozy waters leads
Through rural bowers or yellow meads,—
With many an old romantic tale
Has cheered the lone sequestered vale;
With many a sweet and tender lay
Deceived the tiresome summer day.
’Tis yours to cull with happy art
Each meaning verse that speaks the heart;
And fair arrayed, in order meet,
To lay the wreath at Beauty's feet.
