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Go, climb the heights, when clad in twilight grey
The soft still moon pulls off the veil of night; Thence, all these valley-dimpled plains survey,
These beaked hills with waving foliage dight, Yon beauteous spire, the heath-impurpled moor, And ocean slumb'ring on the distant shore.
As on we fare behold, a diff'rent scene!
Proud sylvan theatres of various shape, With humble glens, wild and grotesque between,
Stretch'd at the broad base of each jutting cape ; Whence streams irriguous rill, and murmuring take Their mazy progress to the living lake.
0! for some shepherd's cot, some rustic shed,
Deep in the bosom of these peaceful vales! Whether beneath yon mountain'st woody head,
Or in the lone recess of Whisper-dales, Where silence listens to the wood-lark's song, And liquid lapse of rills that glide along.
Spirit of Hilda, || guide me through thy groves,
Through ev'ry tangled maze, and bushy dell, The pathless haunts which Meditation loves,
Where Innocence and careless Quiet dwell; Here let me Wisdom's pensive steps pursue, And bid this vain, this nauseous world adieu.
+ Called Hackness-head.
A beautiful Dale at the top of Long-field Valley,
|| Lady Hilda, foundress of Whitby Abbey.
Hither, of yore, when from the murky caves
Of the deep forest,t rapine's lawless crew
Hither defenceless Sanctity withdrew :
TO A BEAUTIFOL MACAW, CHAINED TO THE DOOR OF
á LAPIDARY'S SHOP, SCARBOROUGH.
Well may'st thou, Poll, of thy bright plumes be
Thy colours are all “warranted in grain!"
+ The Forest of Pickering.
All well, and fashionably chosen too!
Roll on thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll !
His steps are not upon thy paths,-thy fields