The Banks of Wye by Robert Bloomfield
page 27 of 71 (38%)
page 27 of 71 (38%)
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Why tarry, Llewellyn, from me?
Thy sails, on the fathomless ocean, Are swell'd by the boisterous gale; How rests thy tir'd head On the rude rocking bed? While here not a leaf is in motion, And melody reigns in the dale. The mountains of Monmouth invite thee; The WYE, O how beautiful here! This woodbine, thine own, Hath the cottage o'ergrown, O what foreign shore can delight thee, And where is the current so clear? Can lands where false pleasure assails thee, And beauty invites thee to roam; Can the deep orange grove Charm with shadows of love? Thy love at LANDOGA bewails thee; Remember her truth and thy home. Adieu, LANDOGA, scene most dear, Farewell we bade to ETHEL'S WIER; Round many a point then bore away, Till morn was chang'd to beauteous day: And forward on the lowland shore, Silent majestic ruins wore The stamp of holiness; this strand |
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