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.