 | The British Months |  |
TO THE READER.
Whoe'er thou art, to whom 'tis joy to fleeFrom the world's haunts, not by its lures beguil'd,
Of taste yet pure, of manners undefil'd,
And gaze untir'd on sky, and earth, and sea;
To whom the song of birds is harmony,
And beauty the meek floret of the wild:
Oh Nature's simple, unperverted Child,
For thee I write, and crave a friend in thee!
Come, hand in hand with me her ways explore,
Mark'd by the year's beginning, growth, decline!
What hinders but we draw of thoughts a store,
Pleasant and good, from that abundant mine?
But oft to pause forget not, and adore
By nature's works reveal'd the Cause divine!
R., D. & C.
January 1, 1835.
| The British Months | |