CLIFTON GROVE.

A SKETCH.

Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke, Which with the dawn from yonder dingle broke; No more, hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted head, The crows assembling seek their wind-rock'd bed; Still'd is the village hum—the woodland sounds Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds, And general silence reigns, save when below The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow; And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late, Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate; Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale, Breathes its wild music on the downy gale.

Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, Released from day and its attendant toil, And draws his household round their evening fire, And tells the ofttold tales that never tire; Or, where the town's blue turrets dimly rise, And manufacture taints the ambient skies, The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom, The air-pent hold, the pestilential room, And rushes out, impatient to begin The stated course of customary sin: Now, now my solitary way I bend Where solemn groves in awful state impend: And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain, Bespeak, bless'd Clifton! thy sublime domain. Here lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, I come to pass the meditative hour; To bid awhile the strife of passion cease, And woo the calms of solitude and peace. And oh! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on high Thy leafy throne where wavy poplars sigh! Genius of woodland shades! whose mild control Steals with resistless witchery to the soul, Come with thy wonted ardour, and inspire My glowing bosom with thy hallow'd fire. And thou, too, Fancy, from thy starry sphere, Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear, Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight, Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight. At thy command the gale that passes by Bears in its whispers mystic harmony. Thou wavest thy wand, and lo! what forms appear! On the dark cloud what giant shapes career! The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale, And hosts of sylphids on the moonbeams sail. This gloomy alcove darkling to the sight, Where meeting trees create eternal night; Save, when from yonder stream the sunny ray, Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day; Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind, Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclined, I watch'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood; Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food; Or woke with song the woodland echo wild, And at each gay response delighted smiled. How oft, when childhood threw its golden ray Of gay romance o'er every happy day, 

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