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Gay festive bowers, and palaces in dust;

Dark owlet nooks, and caves, and battled rocks;
And winding valleys, roofed with pendent shade;
And tall and perilous cliffs, that overlooked
The breadth of ocean, sleeping on his waves;

Sounds, sights, smells, tastes, the heaven and earth, profuse

In endless sweets, above all praise of song:

For not to use alone did Providence

Abound, but large example gave to man

Of grace, and ornament, and splendour rich,
Suited abundantly to every taste,

In bird, beast, fish, wingèd and creeping thing,
In herb, and flower, and in the restless change
Which, on the many-coloured seasons, made
The annual circuit of the fruitful earth.

Nor do I aught of earthly sort remember,—

If partial feeling to my native place

Lead not my lyre astray,-of fairer view,

And comelier walk, than the blue mountain-paths,
And snowy cliffs of Albion renowned;

Albion, an isle long blessed with gracious laws,

And gracious kings, and favoured much of Heaven,
Though yielding oft penurious gratitude.
Nor do I of that isle remember aught
Of prospect more sublime and beautiful
Than Scotia's northern battlement of hills,
Which first I from my father's house beheld,
At dawn of life; beloved in memory still,
And standard still of rural imagery.
What most resembles them, the fairest seems,
And stirs the eldest sentiments of bliss;

And pictured on the tablet of my heart,


P. 128.

"Nor do I of that isle remember aught
Of prospect more sublime and beautiful
Than Scotia's northern battlement of hills,
Which first I from my father's house beheld,
At dawn of life."

Their distant shapes eternally remain,
And in my dreams their cloudy tops arise.

Much of my native scenery appears,
And presses forward to be in my song;
But must not now, for much behind awaits
Of higher note. Four trees I pass not by,
Which o'er our house their evening shadow threw,
Three ash, and one of elm. Tall trees they were,
And old, and had been old a century

Before my day. None living could say aught
About their youth; but they were goodly trees:
And oft I wondered, as I sat and thought
Beneath their summer shade, or, in the night
Of winter, heard the spirits of the wind
Howling among their boughs,-how they had grown
So high, in such a rough tempestuous place;
And when a hapless branch, torn by the blast,
Fell down, I mourned, as if a friend had fallen.

These I distinctly hold in memory still,
And all the desert scenery around.

Nor strange, that recollection there should dwell,
Where first I heard of God's redeeming love;
First felt and reasoned, loved and was beloved;
And first awoke the harp to holy song.

To hoar and green there was enough of joy.
Hopes, friendships, charities, and warm pursuit,
Gave comfortable flow to youthful blood;
And there were old remembrances of days,
When, on the glittering dews of orient life,

Shone sunshine hopes, unfailed, unperjured then;
And there were childish sports, and schoolboy feats,


And schoolboy spots, and earnest vows of love,
Uttered, when passion's boisterous tide ran high,
Sincerely uttered, though but seldom kept;
And there were angel looks, and sacred hours
Of rapture, hours that in a moment passed,
And yet were wished to last for evermore ;
And venturous exploits, and hardy deeds,
And bargains shrewd, achieved in manhood's prime;
And thousand recollections, gay and sweet,
Which, as the old and venerable man

Approached the grave, around him smiling flocked,
And breathed new ardour through his ebbing veins,
And touched his lips with endless eloquence,
And cheered and much refreshed his withered heart.

Indeed, each thing remembered, all but guilt,
Was pleasant, and a constant source of joy.
Nor lived the old on memory alone.

He in his children lived a second life;

With them again took root, sprang with their hopes,
Entered into their schemes, partook their fears,
Laughed in their mirth, and in their gain grew rich.
And sometimes on the eldest cheek was seen
A smile as hearty as on face of youth,
That saw in prospect sunny hopes invite;
Hope's Pleasures, sung to harp of sweetest note,
Harp, heard with rapture on Britannia's hills,
With rapture heard by me, in morn of life.

Nor small the joy of rest to mortal men,
Rest after labour, sleep approaching soft,
And wrapping all the weary faculties
In sweet repose. Then Fancy, unrestrained
By sense of judgment, strange confusion made,

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