Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry year

Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry year
Smiles on my head, and mounts his flaming car
Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade,
And rising glories beam around my head,
My feet are wing'd, while o'er the dewy lawn,
I meet my maiden, risen like the morn:
Oh, bless those holy feet, like angels' feet;
Oh, bless those limbs, beaming with heav'nly light!
Like as an angel glitt'ring in the sky,
In times of innocence, and holy joy;
The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song,
To hear the music of an angel's tongue.
So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear;
So when we walk, nothing impure comes near;
Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat;
Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.
But that sweet village where my black-ey'd maid,
Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade;
Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire
Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.