Normale Version: To the South Downs
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To the South Downs

Ah! Hills beloved! – where once a happy child,
Your beechen shades, “your turf, your flowers among,
I wove your blue-bell into garlands wild,
And woke your echoes with my artless song.

Ah! hills beloved! – your turf, your flowers remain;
But can they peace to this sad breast restore;
For one poor moment soothe the sense of pain,
And teach a breaking heart to throb no more?

And you, Aruna! – in the vale below,
As to the sea your limpid waves you bear,
Can you one kind Lethean cup bestrow,
To drink a long oblivion to my care?

Ah, no! – when all, e’en Hope’s last ray is gone,
There’s no oblivion – but in death alone!