Henry Kirke White

The blushes of morning had ting'd the blue sky,
As I gaz'd on the beautiful scene;
The wild-bird was teaching its nestling to fly,
Where the vista was lovely and green.

On its bosom, the violet and king-cup appeared,
And cowslips and primroses smiled;
And knots of dark blue-bells in beauty were rear'd,
And crimson tip'd daisies grew wild.

The gold blossom'd furze, the may-thorn in bloom,
The lark as it warbled its song—
The dark embower'd shades of impervious gloom,
And the Trent as it glided along,

Were sweet to my view — e'en the shadowy tree,
The rose just emerg'd from its bud,
The moss-cover'd bank that enclosed the green lea,
And the grass tufted hill where I stood—

Were pleasing — and oft from the cliff's rugged height,
Have I gazed on the scene when along;
Have watch'd the dark Trent as it murmur'd in sight,
And fancy'd the prospect my own.

No more, through thy shades shall I pensively stray,
While eve on thy blossoms shall blow;
While night gives a charm to the moon-beams that play,
Through thy trees on the waters below.

Farewell to thy beauties, thy blossoms and bowers,
To a far foreign land I rove;
Still 'mid other scenes in my happiest hours,
I'll think of the sweet Clifton Grove.