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Farewell dear Glencowden, where to airy measures, The streamlet meanders from shade unto shade, where Nature, uncultur'd, counts o'er her sweet
 * treasures,

In the lap of rude accident carelessly spread. but grander by far are the ivy-bound tresses, That wave from the shoulders of yon summit grey, than all the vain pomp, and the fanciful dresses, That wide in the garden their foliage display.

As, dearer to me is the copse of green hazel, Where blooms the pale primrose, besprinkled with
 * dew.

Where no foot is pourtray'd but the foot of the weasel, From its crevice sly peeping, its prey to pursue, an all the sweet vistas, with chaplets of roses, That lead on the eye to some prospect afar, Where nature, constrain'd, on the terrace reposes, With formal improvements for ever at war.

As, dearer by far are thy broom cover'd shoulders, Where nestles the linnet, or warbles her song, starts from her spray, when the precipice moulders, And aloud to the echo does ruin prolong.