[ 6 ]
SONNET V.
TO THE SOUTH DOWNS.
AH, hills belov'd! -- where once, an happy child,
Your beechenshades, (d) 'your turf, your flowers among,'
I wove your blue-bells into garlands wild,
And woke your echoes with my artless song.
Ah, hills belov'd! -- your turf, your flow'rs remain;
But can they peace to this sad breast restore,
For one poor moment soothe the sense of pain,
And teach a breaking heart to throb no more?
And you, (e) Aruna! -- in the vale below,
As to the sea your limpid waves you bear,
Can you one kind Lethean cup bestow,
To drink a long oblivion to my care?
Ah, no! -- when all, e'en hope's last ray is gone,
There's no oblivion -- but in death alone!
SONNET
