While in sweet cadence rising small and still The far-off minstrels of the haunted hill, As the last bleating of the fold expires, Tune in the mountain dells their water lyres.

Indeed, the last two days they had not troubled him except by their bleating at dawn.

Joined to the prattle of the purling rills, Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills, And vacant shepherds piping in the dale; And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, Or stock doves 'plain amid the forest deep, That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; And still a coil the grasshopper did keep: Yet all these sounds, yblent, inclinèd all to sleep.

And, like the timid lambs that crowd with bleatings in the fold, When they advancing to their throats the furious wolf behold, The lovely Moorish maidens, with wet but flashing eyes, Are crowded in a public square and fill the air with cries; And tho', like tender women, 'tis vain for them to arm, Yet loudly they re-echo the words of the alarm.

As we stopped for our noon-tide refreshment, and dismounting threw ourselves on the fresh herbage just at the verge of a pleasant thicket, we were startled by a tender bleating near us, and presently, breaking its way through the low branches, there came upon us a sweet little dappled fawn, evidently in search of its mother.

The Lowings of my Herds, and the Bleatings of my Flocks, make a pleasant Eccho in thy Mountains, and sound sweetly in thy Ears.