THE MAID OF DUNSTABLE
Where o’er the hills, and white as snow,
The channel’d road resounding lies,
And curling from the vale below,
The morning-mists in columns rise;
Blithe at their doors, where glanced the sun,5
The busy maidens plied their trade;
And Dunstable may boast of one,
As fair as ever fancy made.
A transient glance on her sweet face,
Would bid the chastest bosom glow;10
But modesty’s resistless grace,
’Tis hers to feel, and hers to show.—
Pure be the cup which thou mayst sip;
May no false swain thy peace annoy;
May prudence guard thy cherry lip,15
And virtue lead thy steps to joy.