seat, Why, bland deceiver! not renew the cheat! Say, can a few short years this change achieve, That thy illusions can no more deceive! Time's sombrous tints have every view o'erspread, And thou too, gay seducer, art thou fled?

Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe, Yet thou couldst guile Misfortune of her tear, And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy way Could throw a gleam of transitory day. How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems; How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams; The dire mistake too soon is brought to light. And all is buried in redoubled night. Yet some can rise superior to the pain, And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain; While others, dead to feeling, can survey, Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away: But yet a few there be,—too soon o'ercast! Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast, And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the gloom, To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb. So in these shades the early primrose blows, Too soon deceived by suns and melting snows: So falls untimely on the desert waste, Its blossoms withering in the northern blast.

Now pass'd whate'er the upland heights display, Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way; Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat, The timid hare from its accustom'd seat. And oh! how sweet this walk o'erhung with wood, That winds the margin of the solemn flood! What rural objects steal upon the sight! What rising views prolong the calm delight!

The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, The whispering birch by every zephyr bent, The woody island, and the naked mead, The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, The rural wicket, and the rural stile, And frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes, Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise. High up the cliff the varied groves ascend, And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. Around, what sounds, what magic sounds arise, What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd eyes! Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed, The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head. And, swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind, Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. Still every rising sound of calm delight Stamps but the fearful silence of the night, Save when is heard between each dreary rest, Discordant from her solitary nest, The owl, dull screaming to the wandering moon; Now riding, cloud-wrapp'd, near her highest noon: Or when the wild duck, southering, hither rides, And plunges, sullen in the sounding tides.

How oft, in this sequester'd spot, when youth Gave to each tale the holy 

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