Ah! hills belov'd! -- where once a happy child, Your beechen shades, "your turf, your flowers among," I wove your blue-bells into garlands wild, And woke your echoes with my artless song. Ah! hills belov'd! -- your turf, your flowers remain; But can they peace to this sad breast restore; For one poor moment soothe the sense of pain, And teach a breaking heart to throb no more? And you, Aruna! -- in the vale below, As to the sea your limpid waves you bear, Can you one kind Lethean cup bestow, To drink a long oblivion to my care? Ah! no! -- when all, e'en Hope's last ray is gone, There's no oblivion -- but in death alone! |