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WRITTEN IN WHICHWOOD FOR EST.
The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguil'd
When morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam
Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, Wild Nature's sweetest notes they hear : On green untrodden banks they view The hyacinth's neglected hue :
In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds,
For them the moon, with cloudless ray, ,
Duly, the darkening valleys o'er,
Their drooping eyes in quick repose.
Their little sons, who spread the bloom Of health around the clay-built room, Or through the primros'd coppice stray, Or gambol on the new mown hay; Or quaintly braid the cowslip twine, Or drive afield the tardy kine; Or hasten from the sultry hill To loiter at the shady rill; Or climb the tall pine's gloomy, crest
To rob the raven's ancient nest.
Their humble porch with honied flowers The curling woodbine's shades embowers : From the trim garden's thymy mound Their bee's in busy swarms resound: Nor fell Decease, before his time, Hastes to consume life's golden prime:
But when their temples long have wore,
THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.
This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given :
There's nothing true but Heaven!
And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of even ; And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb
There's nothing bright but Heaven !
Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven, And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way
There's nothing calm but Heaven!
The fair smile of morning,
The glory of noon,
The path of the moon,
The valley and plain,