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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 slumbʼring 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 :
LAPIDARY’S SHOP, SCARBOROUGH.
Well may'st thou, Poll, of thy bright plumas be
† 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