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Come, then; thy kind recesses ope!
Fair keeper of the dreams of Hope!
Come with thy visionary train;
And bring my morning scenes again!

To Enon's wild and silent shade,
Where oft my lonely youth was laid;
What time the woodland GENIUS came,
And touched me with his holy flame.-

Or, where the hermit, BELA, leads
Her waves through solitary meads;
And only feeds the desart-flower,
Where once she soothed my slumbering hour:
Or roused by STAINMORE's wintry sky,
She wearies echo with her cry;
And oft, what storms her bosom tear,
Her deeply-wounded banks declare.

Where Eden's fairer waters flow,
By Milton's bower, or Osty's brow,
Or BROCKLEY's alder-shaded cave,
Or, winding round the Druid's grave,
Silently glide, with pious fear
To sound his holy slumbers near.

To these fair scenes of Fancy's reign,
O MEMORY! bear me once again:
For, when life's varied scenes are past,
'Tis simple Nature charms at last.

'Twas thus of old a poet prayed;

Th'indulgent power his prayer approved, And, ere the gathered Rose could fade,

Restored him to the scenes he loved.

A Rose, the poet's favourite flower,

From FLORA's cultured walks he bore; No fairer bloomed in Esher's bower,

Nor Prior's charming Chloe wore.

No fairer flowers could Fancy twine

To hide ANACREON's snowy hair; For there ALMERIA's bloom divine,

And Elliot's sweetest blush was there,

When she, the pride of courts, retires,

And leaves for shades, a nation's love, With awe the village maid admires,


GRAVE moves.

So marvelled much in ENON's shade

The flowers that all uncultured grew, When there the splendid Rose displayed

Her swelling breast, and shining hue.


Yet one, that oft adorned the place

Where now her gaudy rival reigned, Of simpler bloom, but kindred race,

The pensive EGLANTINE complained.

“ Mistaken youth,” with sighs she said,

“From nature and from me to stray! “ The bard, by splendid forms betrayed,

“ No more shall-frame the purer lay.

Luxuriant, like the flaunting Rose,

“And gay the brilliant strains may be, “But far, in beauty, far from those,

“ That flowed to nature and to me.”

The poet felt with fond surprise,

The truths the sylvan critic told; And “

though this courtly Rose," he cries, “Is gay, is beauteous to behold;

“ Yet, lovely flower, I find in thee

“Wild sweetness which no words express, * And charms in thy simplicity,

“ That dwell not in the pride of dress.”

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