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is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale, in whose bosom the bright waters meet† ; Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet, it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh! no,— it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.