318 SONNETS. xxIv. THE DESERTED V. ILLAGE.* "' FIT shroud art thou, O sable grove of fir? For you dismantled dwellings, where no more ?.' The sounds of rustic labor, as 0f yore, Nor laugh, nor song of.jo?ou's.villager Are bliXhely heard, nor aught beheld to stir, Save yonder restless springs, which, bursting o'er, Thro' the rank grass their scntter'd vtaters pour. � Oft to this scene Remembrance will recur, When Melancholy seeks some kindred spot Amid the pa?t, where calmly she may weep ;' And here, when foes have pierc.ed, or friends forgot, Shall'Thought resigu'd her quiet vigils' keep With unobtrusive Woe, that speaketh not, yet is perchancel like silent streams, most deep. �In aNmlley inCumbei4and, there is reallyaplaee .?thia &mcriptiom. The Wowietor ?it went alwoml, and lure not been n'me? hemxl oK The inhabitants knew not to wknm they might apply for rt, lmlr ? fornook their ......... ?Google
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