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 I. 
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SONNET III.
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 XXX. 
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3

SONNET III.

An Evening Address to the Rocks near Tunbridge-Wells.

Romantic Guardians of this peaceful vale,
That o'er yon rafter'd shed raise high your brow;
Say, does some wisard up your cleft side scale,
And like a blighted pollard seem to grow?
Wrapt in the mazy windings of the dale,
Do elfin-monarchs hold their court below,
Or down the devious rill by moonlight sail,
Their bark a shell, a grassy blade their prow?
Whate'er your residents, whate'er their task,
To shield the sounding cliff, or springs unlock,
Whether they now in sloping sun-beams bask,
Or doze till midnight in the rifted rock;
Still let a stranger mark their hallow'd reign,
And hear in rising winds their mystic strain.