The throb of care was thine full long;
Rise, like the Psalmist from his woe,
And pour abroad the joyful song.
Sweet Health, I seek thee! hither bring
Thy balm that softens human ills;
Come, on the long drawn clouds that fling
Their shadows o'er the Surry-Hills.
Yon green-topt hills, and far away
Where late as now I freedom stole,
And spent one dear delicious day
On thy wild banks, romantic _Mole_.
Aye, there's the scene![1] beyond the sweep
Of London's congregated cloud,
The dark-brow'd wood, the headlong steep,
And valley-paths without a crowd!
Here, Thames, I watch thy flowing tides,
Thy thousand sails am proud to see;
But where the _Mole_ all silent glides
Dwells Peace--and Peace is wealth to me.
[Footnote 1: Box-Hill, and the beautiful neighbourhood of Dorking, in
Surry.]
Of Cambrian mountains still I dream,
And mouldering vestiges of war;
By time-worn cliff or classic stream
Would rove,--but prudence holds a bar.
Conic then, O Health, I'll strive to bound
My wishes to this airy stand;
'Tis not for _me_ to trace around
The wonders of my native land.
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