Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/287

Soon shall the waning stars grow pale,
E’en now—but lo! the rustling sail,
Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale!
The bark glides on—their fears are o'er,
Recedes the bold, romantic shore,
    Its features mingling fast;
Gaze, Bertha, gaze, thy lingering eye
May still each lovely scene descry
    Of years for ever past!
There wave the woods, beneath whose shade,
With bounding step, thy childhood played;
'Midst ferny glades, and mossy lawns,
Free as their native birds and fawns;
Listening the sylvan sounds, that float
On each low breeze, 'midst dells remote;
The ring-dove's deep, melodious moan,
The rustling deer in thickets lone;
The wild bee's hum, the aspen's sigh,
The wood-stream's plaintive harmony.
Dear scenes of many a sportive hour,
There thy own mountains darkly tower!