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The rapid line of motion, then at once
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless !-not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my sister's flowers;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us, on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
AREWELL, thou little nook of mountain ground,
Thou rocky corner in the lowest
Of that magnificent temple which
One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare;
Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,
The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,
Farewell!-we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care, Thee, and the cottage which thou dost surround.
Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,
And there will safely ride when we are gone;
The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none:
Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!
With these our latest gifts of tender thought;
We go for one to whom ye will be dear;
A gentle maid, whose heart is lowly bred,
Dear spot! which we have watched with tender heed, Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,
Making all kindness registered and known;
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,
Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.
And O most constant, yet most fickle place,
Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,
And say'st, when we forsake thee, "Let them go!" Thou easy-hearted thing, with thy, wild race
Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,
And travel with the year at a soft pace.
Help us to tell her tales of years gone by,
And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best
Joy will be flown in its mortality;
Something must stay to tell us of the rest.
Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast
Glittered at evening like a starry sky;
And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,
Of which I sang one song that will not die.