22.07.2007, 19:50
To a Village in Suffolk
The residence of a friend
Blakenham! although thy boundet scenes among
No forests wave, no lofty hills arise,
Whence far-strech’d prospects meet the raptur’d eyes –
No winding sea-dasht shores to thee belong,
Skirted by wild and rocky solitudes,
“Sublimities that most delight the mind!”
Yet Blakenham, thy still meads where riv’lets wind,
Thy corn-fields waving ‘neath the rustling breeze,
And thy secluded copses – they are dear
To me; and when I go far, far away,
Full oft amid thy scenes will memory stray.
Ah! virtue, taste, refinement pure are here;
And these, when view’d by fond affection’s eye,
Give thee an interest – which shall never die!
The residence of a friend
Blakenham! although thy boundet scenes among
No forests wave, no lofty hills arise,
Whence far-strech’d prospects meet the raptur’d eyes –
No winding sea-dasht shores to thee belong,
Skirted by wild and rocky solitudes,
“Sublimities that most delight the mind!”
Yet Blakenham, thy still meads where riv’lets wind,
Thy corn-fields waving ‘neath the rustling breeze,
And thy secluded copses – they are dear
To me; and when I go far, far away,
Full oft amid thy scenes will memory stray.
Ah! virtue, taste, refinement pure are here;
And these, when view’d by fond affection’s eye,
Give thee an interest – which shall never die!