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When the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar,
Gaz'd on the tumbling tide of dread Lodoar ;
And through the rifted cliffs, that scal'd the sky,
Derwent's clear mirror charm'd his dazzled eye. 2 1
Each osier isle, inverted on the wave,
Through morn's grey mist its melting colours gave;
And, o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantling grove
Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove.

Light as the breeze that brush'd the orient dew, From rock to rock the young adventurer flew; And day's last sun-shine slept along the shore, When lo, a path the smile of welcome wore. Imbowering shrubs with verdure veil'd the sky, And on the musk-rose shed a deeper dye; Save when a mild and momentary gleam Glanc'd from the white foam of some shelter'd stream.

O'er the still lake the bell of evening toll'd, And on the moor the shepherd penn'd his fold; And on the green hill's side the meteor play'd; When, hark! a voice sung sweetly through the shade, It ceas'd. ...yet still in Florio's fancy sung, Still on each note his captive spirit hung;

Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail !
That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail.
Long have ye heard the narratives of age,
The battle's havoc, and the tempest's rage;
Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray
Gild the calm close of Valour's various day.

Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece, Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease : A softer tone of light pervades the whole, And breathes a pensive languor o'er the soul.

Hast thou thro’ Eden's wild-wood vales pursued Each mountain-scene, magnificently rude ;18 To mark the sweet simplicity of life, Far from the din of Folly's idle strife: Nor, with Attention's lifted eye, rever'd That modest stone which pious Pembroke rear'd ; Which still records, beyond the pencil's power, The silent sorrows of a parting hour; Still to the musing pilgrim points the place, Her sainted spirit most delights to trace?

Thus, with the manly glow of honest pride, 19 O'er his dead son old Ormond nobly sigh'd. Thus, through the gloom of Shenstone's fairy grove, Maria's urn still breathes the voice of love.

As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower
Awes not so deeply in its morning hour,
As when the shades of Time serenely fall
On every broken arch and ivied wall ;
The tender images we love to trace,
Steal from each year a “ melancholy grace !"
And as the sparks of social love expand,
As the heart opens in a foreign land;
And with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile;
The stranger greets each native of his isle ;
So scenes of life, when present and confest,
Stamp but their bolder features on the breast;
Yet not an image, when remotely view'd,
However trivial, and however rude,
But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh,
With every claim of close affinity !

But these pure joys the world can never know; In gentler climes their silver currents flow.

Yet here Remembrance, sweetly-soothing power! Wing'd with delight Confinement's lingering hour. The fox's brush still emulous to wear, He scour'd the country in his elbow-chair; And, with view-halloo, rous'd the dreaming hound, That rung, by starts, his deep-ton'd music round.

Long by the paddock's humble pale confin'd, His aged hunters cours’d the viewless wind: And each, with glowing energy pourtray'd, The far-fam'd triumphs of the field display'd ; Usurp'd the canvass of the crowded hall, And chas'd a line of heroes from the wall. There slept the horn each jocund echo knew, And many a smile and many a story drew ! High o'er the hearth his forest trophies hung, And their fantastic branches wildly flung. How would he dwell on each vast antler there ! This dash'd the wave, that fann'd the mountain air. Each, as it frown'd, unwritten records bore, Of gallant feats and festivals of yore.

But why the tale prolong ?....His only child, His darling Julia on the stranger smil'd.

Her little arts a fretful sire to please,
Her gentle gaiety, and native 'ease,
Had won his soul....but ah? few days had pass'd,
Ere his fond visions prov'd too sweet to last.

When evening ting'd the lake's ethereal blue, And her deep shades irregularly threw; Their shifting sail dropt gently from the cove, Down by St. Herbert's consecrated grove; 2 3 Whence erst the chanted hymn, the taper'd rite, Amus'd the fisher's solitary night; And still the mitred window, richly creath'd, A sacred calm through the brown foliage breath'd.

The wild deer, starting through the silent glade, With fearful gaze their various course survey'd. High hung in air the hoary goat reclind, His streaming beard the sport of every wind; And, as the coot her jet-wing lov'd to lave, Rock'd on the bosom of the sleepless wave ; The eagle rush'd from Skiddaw's purple crest, A cloud still brooding o'er her giant-nest.

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