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CLIFTON GROVE, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Lo! In the west, fast fades the lingering
Last Line: The hosts of sylphids on the moon-beam sail
Subject(s): Clifton, England

Come, Anna! come, and leave awhile
Thy fretful cares and thy laborious moil;
Leave the gay and giddy throng,
Pleasure's rosy paths along;
Leave the world's bewildering strife,
The golden dream, the cares of life;
Come, and in my rural bower,
While away the lazy hour;
Mark the sunbeam's paly light,
Faintly tingling through the night;
Mark how sweetly yon woodbine
Breathes its fragrance on the wind.
Come, Anna! I'll dispel thy care,
And soothe with hope the throb of deep despair:
I'll bid the azure sparkle clear,
And gild with light the falling tear;
I'll pluck the rose from danger's steep,
And plant it on the bank so deep:
I'll chase the sprite of stubborn woe,
And bid thy heart with rapture glow;
I'll soothe thy soul with harmony,
And with thy lover roam the lea.
Mark yon oak, with ivy brown,
Whose broad roots, twisting, clasp the ground;
Mark the boughs that sweep so wide,
And cast a deep and cooling shade;
Mark how sweet the thrush's song,
Melting on the ear along,
While the feathered choristers
Chant their prayers to night's pale queen.
And now the pale-eyed moon appears,
Her shadowy beams dispel our fears;
The silver light that tips the trees,
And trembles on the rippling seas,
The glittering stars, that gem the skies,
And all the spangled concave lies,
Combine to charm the raptured sight,
And wake to joy the soul's delight.
Thus, while we rove the dewy dell,
And on the leafy carpet dwell,
The tide of life shall sweetly flow,
Nor aught disturb our tranquil wo.
The moments, as they fleeting fly,
Shall waft sweet joy and peace of mind,
And when the hour of death draws nigh,
We'll fearless leave the world behind.
But ah! too soon the cruel morn
Compels thy lover to return,
Too soon, thy lover must depart,
And leave the charm of Clifton's heart;
Yet though he flies to distant climes,
And many a tedious league sublimes,
Still shall he oft in fancy rove,
Through Clifton's sweet and shady grove;
Still shall the moon's pale beams appear,
To shed their beauty on his bier,
And still the pensive muse shall sing,
The pleasures of that happy spring.
Then, Anna! dry thy tearful eye,
Nor let us heave the frequent sigh,
But ere we bid the world adieu,
Let's mark the friends to virtue true,
And when the solemn knell shall toll,
And life's frail pleasures cease to roll,
In friendship's arms we'll sink to rest,
And mingle with the eternal blest.

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