CLIFTON GROYE. 



A SKETCH IN VERSE. 



Lo ! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, 

 And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. 

 No more is heard, the woodman's measured stroke 

 Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle broke ; 

 No more, hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted head, 

 The crows assembling, seek their wind-rock'd bed 

 Stiird is the village hum — the woodland sounds 

 Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds, 

 And general silence reigns, save when below, 

 The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow ; 

 And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late, 

 Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate : 

 Or, when the sheep bell, in the distant vale, 

 Breathes its wild music on the downy gale. 



Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, 



Released from day and its attendant toil. 



And draws his household round their evening firej 



And tells the oft-told tales that never tire : 



Or, where the town's blue turrets dimly rise, 



And manufacture taints the ambient skies, 



The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom, 



The air-pent hold, the pestilential room, 



And rushes out, impatient to begin 



The stated course of customary sin : 



Now, now, my solitary way I bend 



Where solemn groves in awful state impend, 



