66
LINES.
H, Nature! beautiful to me art thou:A well-spring of still fresh and fadeless joy!
And not alone when thy majestic scenes
In stately pride, or softer beauty fair,
Almost oppress the heart which feels their power,
With rapture too intense, yet tinged with awe;
Jut e'en as here, where thy enchanter's hand
Has clothed in simple garb the lowly scene;
Without one spot to charm the gazing eye,
Which seeks for forms of beauty soft or stern.—
Yea; e'en without mine own loved, lonely sea,
There seems to rest a calm and sunlit hue,
An air of blest repose,—a tint which tells
No mortal hand hath blent its heaven-born dyes:
And oh! 'tis fair to view yon boundless skies,
With all their mingling thoughts of love and peace:
Those fertile fields, with waving bounties crowned,
And rich in August's golden tint of joy;
The sombre woods, mature in beauty now,
Dark lustrous green!—But ah! too soon I see,
Amid their verdant mass, one paly hue,
One yellow leaf; which, like that silver thread,
The first grey hair on matron beauty's brow,
Proclaims, alas! that youth's bright Spring is flown.
