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But why should I his childish feats display?
Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fled;
Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray
Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped,
Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head.
Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream
To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led,
There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam,
Shot from the western cliff, releas'd the weary

team.

Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,
To him nor vanity nor joy could bring.

His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would bleed
To work the woe of any living thing,

By trap, or net; by arrow, or by sling;
These he detested; those he scorn'd to wield.
He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king,
Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field.
And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield.

Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine;
And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling groves,
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine :
While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join,

And Echo swells the chorus to the skies.
Would Edwin this majestic scene resign
For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies?
Ah! no he better knows great Nature's charms
to prize.

And oft he traced the uplands, to survey,
When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn,
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain grey,
And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn:
Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn,
Where twilight loves to linger for a while;
And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,
And villager abroad at early toil.

But lo! the Sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile.

And oft the craggy cliff he lov'd to climb,
When all in mist the world below was lost.
What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime,
Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast,
And view th' enormous waste of vapor, tost
In billows, length'ning to the horizon round,
Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now em-
boss'd!

And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound,
Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar pro

found!

In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene.
In darkness, and in storm, he found delight:
Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene
The southern Sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen
Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul:
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control.

"O
ye wild groves, O where is now your bloom!
(The Muse interprets thus his tender thought,)
"Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy
gloom,

Of late so grateful in the hour of drought:

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