THE AUTHOR’S BALLADE OF 
HIS TALE 
 
Go to the woodlands, English maid, 
Or where the downs to seaward bend, 
When autumn is in gold arrayed, 
Or spring is green, or winters send 
A frosty sun, or summers blend 
Their flowers in every dainty dye, 
And take, as you would take a friend, 
This pleasant tale of Thessaly. 
 
Lie on the greensward, while the shade 
Shortens as morning doth ascend 
The gates of Heaven, and bud and blade 
Laugh at the dawn, while breezes lend 
Their music, till you comprehend 
The meaning of the world, and sigh— 
Yet love makes happy in the end 
This pleasant tale of Thessaly.