WHERE gentle Avon winds its silver stream,
A moss-grown cottage rears its humble head;
There Lucy first the vernal air inhal'd,
And spent beneath its roof her infant years.
Like Avon's stream those years flow'd gently on,
Nor heav'd a murm'ring sigh for pomp or wrath;
Her Parents' toil to ease was all her care.
Their cott, with three small fields, was all their store;
This little all, by labour, not by fraud
Obtain'd, by bounteous Heav'n was kindly blest,
And ever did their frugal wants supply.
To Nature, not to Art, her charms she ow'd;
By all the hamlet were those charms confess'd,
Still had she liv'd, and still had happy been,
Had honour been young Edward's constant guide:
But Edward, tutor'd long in Fashion's school,
Lord of each pleasing art, each winning grace,
To visit Shakspeare's hallow'd Mulberry came,
By Lucy guided to the classic shade.
Beneath its ancient boughs he woo'd the Nymph,
And twice two moons on Avon's banks he spent,
Ere the sad Maid, by hapless love betray'd,
Yielded her virgin honour to his arms.