CLIFTON GKOVE. 21 



The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, 

 The rural wicket, and the rural stile, 

 And frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. 

 Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes, 

 Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise. 

 High up the cliiF the varied groves ascend. 

 And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. 

 Around, what sounds, W'hat magic sounds arise, 

 What gliram'ring scenes salute my ravish'd eyes : 

 Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed, 

 The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head. 

 And swelling slow, conies wafted on the wind. 

 Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. 

 Still, every rising sound of calm delight 

 Stamps but the fearful silence of the night ; 

 Save, when is heard, between each dreary rest, 

 Discordant from her solitary nest, 

 The owl, dull screaming to the wandering moon ; 

 Now riding, cloud-wrapt, near her highest noon : 

 Or, when the wild-duck, southering, hither rides, 

 And plunges sullen in the sounding tides. 



How oft, in this sequester'd spot, when youth 



Gave to each tale the holy force of truth, 



Have I long linger'd, while the milk-maid sung 



The tragic legeiid, till the woodland rung! 



That tale, so sad ! which, still to memory dear, 



From its sweet source can call the sacred tear. 



And (luU'd to rest stern reason's harsh control) 



Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. 



These hallow'd shades, — these trees that woo the wind, 



Recall its faintest features to my mind. 



A hundred passing years, with march sublime, 



Have swept beneath the silent wing of time, 



Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, 



Reclusely dwelt the far-famed Clifton Maid, 



The beatueous Margaret ; for her each swain 



Confest in private his peculiar pain, 



In secret sigh"d, a victim to despair, 



Xor dared to hope to wan the peerless fair. 



