118 MISCELLANEOUs POEMS. What, though nor smiling slope of corn, Nor silver streamlet thee adorn, Nor shelter of romantic grove Win to thy haunts the steps -of Loire; What, the' one only aged thorn, Scorch'd by the sun, by tempests torn, With sickly verdure scantly drest, Be all, that shields thy barren breast, Yet many a wild and simple grace Ev? in thy ruggedness I trace, And the dark contrast of thy mien But heightens every glowing scene, Which, at each step, that leads more high, Arrests with still new charms the eye. But, while thy praises I rehearse, No immortality of verse Dare I in hope to thee assign: In memory of the past I twine For thy 1ov'd brow an artless wreath, Ptuck'd from thine own uncultur'd heath. Fancy, of thee, deceitful maid, I ask no visionary aid. Where each variety of scene Recals some trace of what hath been, And ev'ry object is endear'd By reco!lection's ties fever'd, ......... ?Google
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