Page:Poems on Various Subjects - Coleridge (1796).djvu/147

 Nor there the Pine-grove to the midnight blast Makes solemn music! But th' unceasing rill To the soft Wren or Lark's descending trill Murmurs sweet undersong mid jasmin bowers. In this same pleasant meadow, I ween, you wander'd—there collecting flow'rs Of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers!

There for the monarch-murder'd Soldier's tomb You wove th' unfinish'd wreath of saddest hues; And to that holier chaplet added bloom Besprinkling it with cleansing dews. But lo your awakes the Muse

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