Low, heavy clouds are hanging on the hills, And half-impatient of the sun's approach, Shake sullenly their cold and languid wings! Oh! it is fine to see his morning beams Burst on the gloom, while, in disorder'd flight, The shuddering, mournful vapours steal away; Like the tenacious spirit of a man, Shrinking from the loud voice of cheerfulness, When it breaks in, so sadly out of tune, Upon his quiet musing, and dispels The waking dream of a dejected heart: The dream I cherish in this solitude, In all the wanderings of my little flock, That which beguiles my loneliness, and takes Its charm and change from the surrounding scene. Oh! how unwelcome often are to me The gayest, most exhilarating sounds! When slow and sickly Memory, tempted forth By dint of soft persuasion, brings to light His treasures--and, with childish eagerness, Arranges and collects--then suddenly To have him startled by discordance, drag, Without discrimination, all away-- And with them leap to his deep hollow cave-- Not easily to be withdrawn again, Grieves one who loves to think of other times, To talk with those long silent in the grave, And pass from childhood to old age again. Behold this stony rock! whose rifted crest, Lets the rough, roaring torrent force a way, And, foaming, pour its waters on the vale! Behold them tumbling from their dizzy height, Like clouds, of more than snowy whiteness, thrown Precipitate from heav'n, which, as they fall, Diffuse a mist, in form of glory, round! This was my darling haunt a long time past! Here, when a boy, in pleasing awe, I sate, Wistfully silent, with uplifted eye, And heart attun'd to the sad, lulling sound They made descending. Far below my feet, Near where yon little, ruin'd cottage lies, Oft, at the pensive hour of even-tide I saw young Osborne bearing on his harp, And, trusting to an aged mother's care, His darkling steps: Beneath that falling beech, Whose wide-spread branches touch the water's edge, He lov'd to sit, and feel the freshen'd gale Breathe cool upon him.