Page:The Poetical Works of Thomas Parnell (1833).djvu/35

Rh By far Sorrento's cliffs, and Sorga's vale; Or when Ardennes' green forests saw me roam Their leafy glens, nor wish a fairer home. Ah! then, St. Hubert! who so pleas'd as me, Wandering at will, beneath thy forest tree; Or where the antler'd herds at early dawn Graze the green wealth of many a flowery lawn; Or list'ning in thy chapel, legends old Of the brave knight, and of the spurs of gold, By the grey Sacristain in mystery told. Yet what if time around my temples pour Its lenient dews, a sweet exhaustless store; And Nature, to regain what grief may part, Spread the fresh tide of feeling round the heart?— Fled is the Morn of Life! yet left me still, The vale secluded, and the whispering rill: Content amid the silent woods to hear Soft falls of water murmuring in the ear. View the wild flowers their fragrant bells unfold, Spread the small leaf, and ope their cups of gold. Round the still pool the martlet's wing to see, To mark the linnet warbling from the tree, Or to his nectar'd hive watch home the yellow bee. Or now at Eve, from the tall mountain's crest, Catching the purple splendours of the West: Yon level length of shore—the headland grey, Far seen—and many a barge and pinnace gay, With flag and flashing oar moor'd in the golden bay.