 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
49
To trace thy walks from bower to bower,
Thy noble cliffs, thy wildwood joys,
Nature's own work that never cloys,
Who, while reflection bids him roam,
Calls not this paradise his home,
Can ne'er, with dull unconscious eye,
Leave them behind without a sigh.
Thy tale of truth then, Sorrow, tell,
Of him who bade this home farewell;
Morris of Persfield.—Hark, the strains!
Hark! 'tis some hoary bard complains!
The decds, the worth, he knew so well,
The force of nature bids him tell.
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |