The Resting-Place

Mid-noon is past;--upon the sultry mead
No zephyr breathes, no cloud its shadow throws:
If we advance unstrengthened by repose,
Farewell the solace of the vagrant reed!
This Nook--with woodbine hung and straggling weed,
Tempting recess as ever pilgrim chose,
Half grot, half arbour--proffers to enclose
Body and mind, from molestation freed,
In narrow compass--narrow as itself:
Or if the Fancy, too industrious Elf,
Be loth that we should breathe awhile exempt
From new incitements friendly to our task,
Here wants not stealthy prospect, that may tempt
Loose Idless to forego her wily mask.