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TO RECOVERY.

RECOVERY, where art thou ? Daughter of Heaven, where shall we seek thy help? Upon what hallowed fountain hast thou laid

O Nymph adored, thy spell ?

By the grey ocean's verge,
Daughter of Heaven, we seek thee, but in vain ;
We find no healing in the breeze that sweeps

Thy thymy mountain's brow.

Where are the happy hours,
The sunshine that so cheer'd the morn of life!
For Health is filed, and with her fled the joys

That made existence dear.

I saw the distant hills
Smile in the radiance of the orient beam,
And gazed delighted that anon our feet

Should yisit scenes so fair.

I look'd abroad at noon,
The shadow and the storm were on the hills !
The

crags that like a faery fabric shone
Darkness had overwhelm'd,

On you, ye coming years,
So fairly shone the April gleam of Hope,
So darkly o'er the distance late so bright,

Now settle the black clouds.

Come thou and chase away SORROW and Pain, the persecuting Powers That make the melancholy day so long,

So long the restless night.

Shall we not find thee here, RECOVERY, on the ocean's breezy strand? Is there no healing in the gales that sweep

The thymy mountain's brow?

I look for thy approach, O life-preserving Power ! as he who strays Alone in darkness o'er the pathless marsh

Watches the dawn of day.

July 1799

S. LINES

WRITTEN IN DEVONSHIRE.

Far from the city's busy throng,
No more he tunes the laughing song,

By Avon's dusky stream;
No more his mirth-inspiring muse
Wild Folly's idle track pursues,

But courts a graver theme.

O'er Devon's verdant hills he roves,
Or seeks the dark and silent groves,

To meditation dear ;
While Solitude around him reigns,
He sits, and thinks, and oft complains,

No Anna wanders there.

Where rolls the surge on yonder sands,
Fann'd by the breeze of health he stands,

And oft delights to lave;
To deck the scene bright fancy loves,
And now a sea-born Venus moves
An Anna on the wave.

J. W. T,

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