The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, The whispering birch by every zephyr bent, The woody island, and the naked mead, The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, The rural wicket, and the rural stile, And frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes, Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise. High up the cliff the varied groves ascend, And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. Around, what sounds, what magic sounds arise, What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd eyes! Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed, The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head. And, swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind, Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. Still every rising sound of calm delight Stamps but the fearful silence of the night, Save when is heard between each dreary rest, Discordant from her solitary nest, The owl, dull screaming to the wandering moon; Now riding, cloud-wrapp'd, near her highest noon: Or when the wild duck, southering, hither rides, And plunges, sullen in the sounding tides. How oft, in this sequester'd spot, when youth Gave to each tale the holy force of truth, Have I long linger'd, while the milkmaid sung The tragic legend, till the woodland rung! That tale, so sad! which, still to memory dear, From its sweet source can call the sacred tear, And (lull'd to rest stern Reason's harsh control) Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. These hallow'd shades,--these trees that woo the wind, Recall its faintest features to my mind. A hundred passing years, with march sublime, Have swept beneath the silent wing of time, Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, Reclusely dwelt the far famed Clifton Maid, The beauteous Margaret; for her each swain Confess'd in private his peculiar pain, In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair, Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair. No more the Shepherd on the blooming mead Attuned to gaiety his artless reed, No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck His favourite wether's unpolluted neck, But listless, by yon bubbling stream reclined, He mix'd his sobbings with the passing wind, Bemoan'd his hapless love; or, boldly bent, Far from these smiling fields a rover went, O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam, A self-will'd exile from his native home. Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain; Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain. Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs, The echoing vault responded to their vows, As here deep hidden from the glare of day, Enamour'd oft, they took their secret way. Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name; 'T was there the blushing maid confessed her flame. Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie, When evening slumber'd on the western sky. That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare. Each bears mementos of the fated pair.