THE BANKS OF THE WYE.
BOOK I.
"Rouse from thy slumber, pleasure calls, arise,Quit thy half-rural bower, awhile despiseThe thraldom that consumes thee. We who dwellFar from thy land of smoke, advise thee well.Here Nature's bounteous hand around shall fling,Scenes that thy Muse hath never dar'd to sing.When sickness weigh'd thee down, and strength declin'd;When dread eternity absorb'd thy mind,Flow'd the predicting verse, by gloom o'erspread,That...
more...