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Yes, dearer that all that weak symmetry fancies,
Constrain'd decorations that never can please,
When the eye, as 'twere, fetter'd, onward advance
No wild deviation affording release.
But, ah! why count over the charms of Glencowden
The charms of Glencowden are pains unto me;
These scenes of my youth! in my bosom thick croaking,
Will murder my peace, tho' far distant I be.
Then oft will the pleasures I felt at the nutting
Thy green spreading hazel, with clusters so fair
Return o'er my mind when, low pensively sitting
I brood o'er each prospect of sorrow and care.
To gain the sweet purple that glow'd on the bram
Or peep'd at the linnet that chirp'd on the spray
Now thy rugged sides I would fearlessly scramble
And chide my companions for timid delay.
Philosophers, tell me, how I may behind me
Leave all the soft pleasures I oft tasted there;
Nor drop (tho' reflection should craw to remind
For their loss the slight tribute they ask of a
Ah! there all your sophistry shrinks from the quest
In vain you pretend that affection is wrong:
The eye of endearment delights still to tease me,
And doat on those scenes it would wish to prole
