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Here, lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, I come to pass
the meditative hour;
To bid awile the strife of passion cease, And Oh! Thou sacred
power, who rear'st on high
Thy leafy throne, where waving poplars sigh! Genius of woodland
shades!
Whose mild controul Steals with resistless witchery to the
soul.
Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, A livelier light
upon my vision flows,
No more above the embracing branches meet, No more the river
gurgles at my feet,
But seen deep, down the cliffs impending side, Through hanging
woods, now gleams its silver tide
Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight, Each shrub
presents a source of chaste delight,
And nature bids for him her treasures flow, And gives him
alone bliss to know,
Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife, The harmless
pleasures of a harmless life,
Now apss'd what'er the uplands heights display, Down the steep
cliff I wind my devious way;
Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat, The timid hare from
its accustom'd seat.
What rural objects steal upon the sight!
What rising views prolong the calm delight;
High up the cliff the varied groves ascend, And mournful larches
o'er the wave impend, Around, what sounds, what magic sounds,
arise,
What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd eyes!
Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed,
The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head,
Dear Native Grove! where'er my devious track, To thee will
memory lead the wanderer back.
Still, still to thee, where'er mt footsteps roam, My heart
shall point, and lead the wanderer home,
When splendour offers, and when Fame incites, I'll pause,
and think of all thy dear delights
Turn once again to these scenes, these well-known scenes once
more, trace once again old Trents romantic shore
And tir'd with words, and all their busy ways, Here waste
the little remnant of my days
Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove,Sigh on the
wood-blast of the dark alcove
Henry Kirke White
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