Wild Flowers - Or, Pastoral and Local Poetry by Robert Bloomfield
page 33 of 76 (43%)
page 33 of 76 (43%)
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I'll cut away ten thousand oaths and vows,
And tell my comrades, with a manly stride, How I, _a girl out-witten and out-lied_." Such was not Herbert--he had never known Love's genuine smiles, nor suffer'd from his frown; And as to that most honourable part Of planting daggers in a parent's heart, A novice quite:--he past his hours away, Free as a bird and buxom as the day; Yet, should a lovely girl by chance arise, Think not that Herbert Brooks would shut his eyes. On thy calm joys with what delight I dream, Thou dear green valley of my native stream! Regret for Devastation by Enclosures. Fancy o'er thee still waves th' enchanting wand, And every nook of thine is fairy land, And ever will be, though the axe should smite In Gain's rude service, and in Pity's spite, Thy clustering alders, and at length invade The last, last poplars, that compose thy shade: Thy stream shall then in native freedom stray, And undermine the willows in its way, These, nearly worthless, may survive this storm, This scythe of desolation call'd "Reform." No army past that way! yet are they fled, The boughs that, when a school-boy, screen'd my head: I hate the murderous axe; estranging more |
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