Look ! under that broad beech-tree I sat down, when I was last this way
a-fishing; and the birds in the adjoining grove seemed to have a friendly
contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live in a hollow
tree near to the brow of that primrose-hill. There I sat viewing the silver
streams glide silently towards their centre, the tempestuous sea; yet
sometimes opposed by rugged roots and pebble-stones, which broke
their waves, and turned them into foam; and sometimes I beguiled time
by viewing the harmless lambs; some leaping securely in the cool
shade, whilst others sported themselves in the cheerful sun; and saw
others craving comfort from the swollen udders of their bleating dams.
As I thus sat, these and other sights had so fully possess my soul with
content, that I thought, as the poet has happily express it,
I was for that time lifted above earth:
And possest joys not promis'd in my birth.
As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure
entertained me; 'twas a handsome milk-maid, that had not yet attained
so much age and wisdom as to load her mind with any fears of many
things that will never be, as too many men too often do; but she cast
away all care, and sung like a nightingale. Her voice was good, and the
ditty fitted for it; it was that smooth song which was made by Kit
Marlow, now at least fifty years ago; and the milk-maid's mother sung
an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh, in his younger
days.
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