I could not then have told thee how
The change came o'er my heart, but now
I know full well the charm that wrought,
Into my soul, the spell of thought--
Of tender, pensive thought, which made
Me love the forest's deepest shade,
And listen, with delighted ear,
To the low voice of waters near,
As gliding, gushing, gurgling by,
They utter their sweet minstrelsy.
I scarce need give that _charm_ a name;
Thy heart, I know, hath felt the same,--
Ah! where is mind, or heart, or soul,
That has not bowed to its control?
IX.
See, where yon towering, rocky ledge,
Hangs jutting o'er the river's edge,
There channelled dark, and dull, and deep,
The lazy, lagging waters sleep;
Thence follow, with thine eagle sight,
A double stone's cast to the right,
Mark where a white-walled cottage stands,
Devised and reared by cunning hands,
A stately pile, and fair to see!
The chisel's touch, and pencil's trace,
Have blent for it a goodly grace;
And yet, it much less pleaseth me,
Than did the simple rustic cot,
Which occupied of yore that spot.
For, 'neath its humble shelter, grew
The fairest flower that e'er drank dew;
A lone exotic of the wood,
The fairy of the solitude,
Who dwelt amid its loneliness
To brighten, beautify, and bless.
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