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There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told ;
Some glorious page of old.
By thousands on her plains
And round the hamlet fanes ;
Each from its nook of leaves ;
As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free fair homes of England !
Long, long in hut and hall
To guard each hallowed wall.
And bright the flow'ry sod,
NDER the green hedges after the snow,
There do the dear little violets grow,
Under the hawthorn or soft mossy beds.
"HE lovely young Lavinia once had friends,
And fortune smiled deceitful, on her birth ;
For, in her helpless years, depriv'd of all, Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven, She, with her widowed mother, feeble, old, And poor, lived in a cottage, far retired Among the windings of a woody vale; By solitude and deep surrounding shades, But more by bashful modesty, concealed. Together thus they shunned the cruel scorn Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet From giddy passion, and low-minded pride; Almost on nature's common bounty fed, Like the gay birds that sung them to repose, Content and careless of to-morrow's fate. Her form was fresher than the morning rose, When the dew wets its leaves : unstained and pure As is the lily, or the mountain snow : The modest virtues mingled in her eyes, Still on the ground dejected, darting all Their humid beams into the blooming flowers : Or when the mournful tale her mother told, Of what her faithless fortune promis’d once, Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace Sat fair proportion'd on her polished limbs, Veiled in a simple robe; their best attire, Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorned, adorned the most. Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, Recluse amid the close embowering woods. As in the hollow breast of Apennine, Beneath the shelter of encircling hills,
A myrtle rises far from human eye,
AIR daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon ;
As yet the early rising sun
Will go with you along.
We have as short a spring;
AIDEN, with the meek brown eyes,
Like the dusk in evening skies!
Then why pause with indecision,
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
VIS the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
No rosebud is nigh,
Or give sigh for sigh!
To pine on the stem;
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thy leaves o'er the bed
Lie scentless and dead.