own purpose, and always
represent the greenwood lover as a _clericus_. One of these rural
nieces has a pretty opening stanza:--

"When the sweet Spring was ascending,
Not yet May, at April's ending,
While the sun was heavenward wending,
Stood a girl of grace transcending
Underneath the green bough, sending
Songs aloft with pipings."

Another gives a slightly comic turn to the chief incident.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 30: See _Renaissance in Italy_, vol. iv. p. 156.]

A PASTORAL.

No. 24.

There went out in the dawning light
A little rustic maiden;
Her flock so white, her crook so slight,
With fleecy new wool laden.

Small is the flock, and there you'll see
The she-ass and the wether;
This goat's a he, and that's a she,
The bull-calf and the heifer.

She looked upon the green sward, where
A student lay at leisure:
"What do you there, young sir, so fair?"
"Come, play with me, my treasure!"

A third seems to have been written in the South, perhaps upon the
shores of one of the Italian lakes--Como or Garda.

THE MULBERRY-GATHERER.

No. 25.

In the summer's burning heat,
When the flowers were blooming sweet,
I had chosen, as 'twas meet,
'Neath an olive bough my seat;
Languid with the glowing day,
Lazy, careless, apt for play.

Stood the tree in fields where grew
Painted flowers of every hue,
Grass that flourished with the dew,
Fresh with shade where breezes blew;
Plato, with his style so rare,
Could not paint a spot more fair.

Runs a babbling brook hard by,
Chants the nightingale on high;
Water-nymphs with song reply.
"Sure, 'tis Paradise," I cry;
For I know not any place
Of a sweeter, fresher grace.

While I take my solace here,
And in solace find good cheer,
Shade from summer, coolness dear,
Comes a shepherd maiden near--
Fairer, sure, there breathes not now--
Plucking mulberries from the bough.

Seeing her, I loved her there:
Venus did the trick, I'll swear!
"Come, I am no thief, to scare,
Rob, or murder unaware;
I and all I have are thine,
Thou than Flora more divine!"

But the girl made answer then:
"Never played I yet with men;
Cruel to me are my kin:
My old mother scolds me when
In some little thing I stray:--
Hold, I prithee,