University of Virginia Library


28

LINES WRITTEN AT LINTON, DEVONSHIRE.

Impatient of his sojourn on the hills,
The Lin comes thundering down his mountain way
From rock to rock, 'mid clouds of gathering spray,
And with stern voice the tributary rills
Calls to his course impetuous;—then he fills
The hollow concave of the vale; delay
Is none from silent cove, or root-bound bay,
That with the whirling current ceaseless thrills—
Yet safe beside each dripping stone its bells
The fox-glove hangs; the green fern smiles to see
The headlong surges in their anarchy
Bathing its feet; and 'mid their mossy cells,
Each sweet and solitary flow'ret dwells
As in the bosom of tranquillity.