 | Metrical Effusions |  |
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DOVE DALE.
A DESCRIPTIVE SKETCH.
How beautiful the scene, where winding Dove,Her waters echoing to the cliffs above,
Pours o'er a rocky bed her limpid stream,
Foaming and sparkling in the noon tide beam.
Enchanting river! though thy scenes demand
A loftier song, a more experienc'd hand;
Yet will I strive from memory to pourtray
The awful grandeur which thy banks display.
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Whose forms grotesque the wondering eye arrest;
The low stone walls, the sheep-folds' simple bound;
The solemn stillness which presides around,
Save when the bleating sheep, or murmuring stream,
Awake the traveller from his pleasing dream;
All, all conspire to soothe the troubl'd breast
With pensive joys, and lull the mind to rest.
From morn 'till evening on thy banks I rov'd,
The more I saw, the more the scene I lov'd;
And when behind the mountain's lofty head
The sun descended, and bright day light fled;
The solemn shades of evening spreading slow
Sublimely darken'd all the vale below;
Reluctant then I took a farewell view,
And bade a long, perhaps a last adieu;
Yet often stopt, by fond regret inclin'd,
To “cast one longing lingering look behind.”
| Metrical Effusions | |