Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/287

Rh

Soon shall the waning stars grow pale, E’en now—but lo! the rustling sail, Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale! The bark glides on—their fears are o'er, Recedes the bold, romantic shore, Its features mingling fast; Gaze, Bertha, gaze, thy lingering eye May still each lovely scene descry Of years for ever past! There wave the woods, beneath whose shade, With bounding step, thy childhood played; 'Midst ferny glades, and mossy lawns, Free as their native birds and fawns; Listening the sylvan sounds, that float On each low breeze, 'midst dells remote; The ring-dove's deep, melodious moan, The rustling deer in thickets lone; The wild bee's hum, the aspen's sigh, The wood-stream's plaintive harmony. Dear scenes of many a sportive hour, There thy own mountains darkly tower!