LONELINESS.
Oft, oft on the mountain in the shade of an oak
I take, when the sun sets, sad and thoughtful my seat;
The most potent magician would fail to invoke
A picture more changing than the view at my feet.
Here chides the rough streamlet with its waves all in foam,
Then it winds, and is lost in the bushes afar,
There the lake, bright and tranquil, reflects the blue dome,
Adorned simply and chastely with evening's first star.
On summits the loftiest, crowned with woods sombre and high,
Still throws the dim twilight its last lingering ray,
While the car of night's regent mounts slowly the sky
And illumines with silver the horizon's dull grey.
Hark! From the clear-outlined gothic steeple is borne
Solemn, solemn and sweet the rich sound of the bells;
On his pathway the traveller, weary and worn,
Stops to hear the loved concert as faintly it swells.
