THITHER he hied, enamour'd of the scene;
For rocks on rocks pil'd, as by magic spell,
Here scorch'd with lightning, there with ivy green,
Fenc'd from the north and east this savage

dell.
Southward a mountain rose with easy swell,
Whose long, long groves eternal murmur made :
And toward the western sun a streamlet fell,

Where, through the cliffs, the eye remote survey'd Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold array’d.

Along this narrow valley you might see
The wild deer sporting on the level ground,
And, here and there, a solitary tree,
Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine crown'd.
Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound
Of parted fragments tumbling from on high ;
And from the summit of that craggy mound

The piercing eagle oft was heard to cry,
Or, on resounding wings, to shoot athwart the sky.

One cultivated spot there was, that spread
Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam,
Where many a rosebud rears its blushing head,
And herbs for food with future plenty teem.
Sooth'd by the lulling sound of grove and stream,
Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul :
He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam,

Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll;
When slowly on his ear these moving accents stole:

“ Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,

And woo the weary to profound repose !
Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest,
And whisper comfort to the man of woes?
Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes,
And Contemplation soar on seraph wings.
( Solitude! the man who thee foregoes,

When lucre lures him, or ambition stings,
Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs.”

WHEN in the crimson cloud of even,

The lingering light decays,
And Hesper on the front of heaven

His glittering gem displays ;
Deep in the silent vale, unseen,

Beside a lulling stream,
A pensive youth, of placid mien,

Indulg'd this tender theme:

“Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd,

High o'er the glimmering dale ; Ye woods, along whose windings wild

Murmurs the solemn gale: Where Melancholy strays forlorn,

And Woe retires to weep, What time the wan moon's yellow horn Gleams on the western deep:

“ To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms

Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,
Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms,

To your retreats I fly.
Deep in your most sequester'd bower

Let me at last recline,
Where Solitude, mild, modest Power,

Leans on her ivied shrine.

6. How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair?

Thy heavenly smile how win?
Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care,

And stills the storm within ?
O, wilt thou to thy favourite grove

Thine ardent votary bring,
And bless his hours, and bid them move

Serene, on silent wing ?

“ Oft let Remembrance sooth his mind

With dreams of former days,
When, in the lap of Peace reclin'd,

He fram'd his infant lays;
When Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care

Nor cold Distrust alarm’d,
Nor Envy with malignant glare

His simple youth had harm’d.

“ 'Twas then, O Solitude! to thee

His early vows were paid,
From heart sincere, and warm, and free,

Devoted to the shade.
Ah! why did Fate his steps decoy

In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy ?-
O, take the Wanderer home!

66

** Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine,

Thy charms my only theme;
My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine

Waves o'er the gloomy stream ;Whence the scar'd owl on pinions gray

Breaks from the rustling boughs, And down the lone vale sails away

To more profound repose.

“O, while to thee the woodland pours

Its wildly warbling song,
And balmy, from the bank of flowers,

The zephyr breathes along ;
Let no rude sound invade from far,

No vagrant foot be nigh,
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car

Flash on the startled eye.

“But if some pilgrim through the glade

Thy hallow'd bowers explore,
O guard from harm his hoary head,

And listen to his lore;
For he of joys divine shall tell,

That wean from earthly woe,
And triumph o'er the mighty spell

That chains his heart below.

“For me, no more the path invites

Ambition loves to tread ; No more I climb those toilsome heights,

By guileful Hope misled : Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more

To Mirth's enlivening strain ; For present pleasure soon is o'er, And all the past is vain.”