THIS mountain-scene with sylvan grandeur crowned; These chestnut-woods, in summer verdure bright; These founts and rivulets, whose mingling sound Lulls every bosom to serene delight; Soft on these hills the sun's declining ray; This clime, where all is new; these murmuring seas; Flocks, to the fold that bend their lingering way; Light clouds, contending with the genial breeze; And all that Nature's lavish hands dispense, In gay luxuriance, charming every sense, Ne'er in thy absence, can delight my breast: Nought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles: And joy may beam yet, 'midst her brightest smiles, A secret grief is mine, that will not rest. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TRAGEDY OF VALENTINIAN: THE POWER OF LOVE by JOHN FLETCHER FIRST OR LAST (SONG) by THOMAS HARDY VIRGILS GNAT by EDMUND SPENSER ON SEEING AN OLD POET IN THE CAFE ROYAL by JOHN BETJEMAN UNTEACHABLE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: A LESSON IN HUMILITY by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |