To me how wildly pleasing is that scene Which doth present, in evening's dusky hour, A group of Gypsies, centered on the green, In some warm nook where Boreas has no power; Where sudden starts the quivering blaze behind Short, shrubby bushes, nibbled by the sheep, That mostly on these short sward pastures keep; Now lost, now seen, now bending with the wind: And now the swarthy Sybil kneels reclined; With proggling stick she still renews the blaze, Forcing bright sparks to twinkle from the flaze. When this I view, the all-attentive mind Will oft exclaim (so strong the scene pervades), "Grant me this life, thou Spirit of the Shades!" |