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To the RIVER EMONT, Cumberland.
By CHARLES LLOYD.
Sweet simple stream, the shallow waves that glide
That on thy banks their mellowing colours shed, Befit the temper of my restless mind!
For while I hear thy waves and see the gleam Of latest eve, afar from human kind,
To linger here unknown I fondly dream!
And all unthinking OTHERS onward bend,
To LOCH LOMOND.
By CHARLES LLOYD.
Lomond thy rich and variegated scene,
Thine arrowy pines that mock the rolling year;
Fring'd with each shrub, and edg'd with tenderest turf,
Where as the attenuated north-gale plays,
The wild flowers mingle with the harmless surf;
Thy long protracted lake expansive now,
(Boldly diversified with wood-crown'd Isles) Imprison'd now by rocks, on whose stern brow,
Clad with cold heath the summer scarcely smiles--I welcome FEARFULLY! and hail in thee
The wildest shapings of sublimity.
TO A WATER NYMPH.
By the late ROBERT LOVELL.
Nymph of the Streamlet, whose pellucid wave
And every herb that deck its fertile side.
Like thee the boon of plenty to bestow,
Like thee to bless around and bless unseen.
Be mine the joy-I ask no more reward,
To cheer the child of want as thou hast cheer'd the Bard.
Oh I have sat, and fancied every sound
The carriage wheels that brought you to my door, And chid the gust, in whose tempestuous roar Perhaps, I thought, their clatter might be drown'd! And when you came, the joy it was to view
The ready board your presence did so cheer! Me-seem'd the sweetest season of the year Was winter, winter welcome made by you. Far distant now, by Fate's decree controul'd,
Devious I roam, and call the Fates unkind, And all that here my searching eyes behold,
But make me fancy, as you rise to mind, That Nature cast you in a finer mould,
Poole Oysters! than the things that here are sold.
On leaving a favourite Residence
farewell! and with thee too adieu,
Joys left as soon as tasted! They are gone, Even like some pleasant dream by hasty dawn Scar'd from the lover's pillow fast they flew, And long will they be absent. I meanwhile,
Sooth'd by the memory of the white-arm'd maid With whom among thy moonlight scenes I stray'd, With melancholy minstrelsy beguile
The lonely hour. But me whate'er betide,
Whether on life's tempestuous ocean tost
-on Her may prosperous Fate
With its long train of changeless raptures, wait!