THE VALE OF THE PLYM. 223 



The whole wide world seems something to be loved 



And cherished : we forget the cares 



That throng around us, mist-like, day by day, 



And sorrow sinks, in temporary shade, 



Oblivion shrouded. 



With what depth of joy, 

 Again we meet thee, Nature, lingering 

 Even on the echoes of thy gentle words, 

 Rejoicing in the effluence of thy smile, 

 And resting on thy balmy breast in love. 



River of Song ! while yet the summer sun 

 Looks down, in splendour, from his golden throne 

 Shining in fullness on thy crystal flow, 

 Uncanopied by rock or verdant grove ; 

 Or glancing on thy breast in slender beams 

 Through the green trellis-work of woven boughs 

 Where ancient oak extend their twisted arms 

 From side to side majestic Sylvan Plym ! 

 Tis sweet to linger in the varying vale 

 That hides thee in its bosom, to recline 

 Beneath some grateful shade and see thee stream, 

 With graceful windings and a whispered sound, 

 Twixt moss-encrusted rocks and banks begemmed 

 With floral richness or to see thee sleep 

 In beautiful repose, a silver lake 

 Reflecting in its bosom every leaf 

 And flower and bud that trembles near its brim, 

 Or hear thy voice come floating from afar 

 Where the clear current whitens into foam 

 Careering fleetly o'er its rocky bed. 



The barren grandeur of the desert moor, 

 The rifted crag the fearful yawning dell, 

 The wild luxuriance of the secret vale, 

 The flowery richness of the cultured glebe 

 And the broad woodlands* avenues of shade 

 With varying charms attend thy wandering way. 

 Over thy sheeted bosom, cold and clear, 

 Hangs the deep shade of Saltram, mass on mass 

 Of rich majestic foliage, neath whose gloom 

 In solitary pride the stately swan 

 Floats on the image of her snowy form ; 



