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A blithe and blooming Forester explored
Those loftier scenes SALVATOR's soul adored;
The rocky pass half-hung with shaggy wood,
And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood;
Nor shunned the track, unknown to human tread,
That downward to the night of caverns led;
Some ancient cataract's deserted bed.

High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose,
And blew his shrill blast o'er perennial snows;
Ere the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar,
Gazed on the tumbling tide of dread Lodore;
And thro' the rifted cliffs, that scaled the sky,
Derwent's clear mirror charmed his dazzled eye.

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Each osier isle, inverted on the wave,
Thro' 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 brushed the orient dew,
From rock to rock the young Adventurer flew;
And day's last sunshine slept along the shore,
When lo, a path the smile of welcome wore.
Imbowering shrubs with verdure veiled the sky,
And on the musk-rose shed a deeper die;
Save when a bright and momentary gleam
Glanced from the white foam of some sheltered stream.

O'er the still lake the bell of evening tolled,
And on the moor the shepherd penned his fold;
And on the green hill's side the meteor played;
When, hark! a voice sung sweetly thro' the shade.
It ceased—yet still in Florio's fancy sung,
Still on each note his captive spirit hung;
Till o'er the mead a cool, sequestered grot
From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot.
A crystal water crossed the pebbled floor,
And on the front these simple lines it bore.

Hence away, nor dare intrude!
In this secret, shadowy cell
Musing Memory loves to dwell,

With her sister Solitude.
Far from the busy world she flies,
To taste that peace the world denies.
Entranced she sits; from youth to age,

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Reviewing Life's eventful page;
And noting, ere they fade away,

The little lines of yesterday.
Florio had gained a rude and rocky seat,
When lo, the Genius of this still retreat!
Fair was her form—but who can hope to trace
The pensive softness of her angel-face?
Can Virgil's verse, can RAPHAEL's touch impart
Those finer features of the feeling heart,
Those tend'rer tints that shun the careless eye,
And in the world's contagious climate die?

She left the cave, nor marked the stranger there;
Her pastoral beauty, and her artless air
Had breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul!
In every nerve he felt her blest controul !
What pure and white-winged agents of the sky,
Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy,
Inform congenial spirits when they meet ?
Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet!

Florio, with fearful joy, pursued the maid,
Till thro' a vista’s moonlight-chequered shade,
Where the bat circled, and the rooks reposed,
(Their wars suspended, and their councils closed)
An antique mansion burst in awful state,
A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate.
Nor paused he there. The master of the scene
Saw his light step imprint the dewy green;
And, slow-advancing, hailed him as his guest,
Won by the honest warmth his looks expressed.

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