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Though scarcely as yet Spring's dawning hour
Has touched the earth with its gentle power,
Yet lovely is all, and fair to see,—
Oh! would thou wert here to gaze with me!
The ruffled lake, as it rolls below,
Seems sprinkled with moving wreaths of snow;
And breaking in foam on the pebbly shore,
With a sound oft heard, and beloved of yore,
Each ripple awakes, with its dreamy tone,
Soft visions of days that are past and gone:
Beyond, still scorning the tempest's power,
The ancient woods o'er the waters tower,
Rising like spirits of days long past,—
Darkly their shadow around is cast,
And their giant forms, as they tower on high,
Seem like the relics of days gone by.
Oh, lovely it is in the pensive shade
Of that dark and ancestral wood to tread,
And mark the beauties that mingle there,
Where all around and above is fair:
On every side immemorial trees
Gracefully wave in the rising breeze;
Beneath, the hazel and briar are seen,
Blent with the holly's unfading green;
Above, the oak scarce matured by time,
The tasselled larch and the fragrant lime,
The ash and elm in their rival pride,
With the shadowy beech, stand side by side,
While the graceful birch, with its stem of snow,
Hangs o'er the waters which roll below;
And lovely the sounds which meet mine ear,
For Nature's eternal voice is here: