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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''l 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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