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LEWESDON HILL.
Ye dew-fed vapours, nightly balm, exhaledFrom earth, young herbs and flowers, that in the mornAscend as incense to the Lord of day,I come to breathe your odours; while they floatYet near this surface, let me walk embathedIn your invisible perfumes, to healthSo friendly, nor less grateful to the mind,Administering sweet peace and cheerfulness.
How changed is thy appearance, beauteous hill!Thou hast put off thy wintry garb, brown heathAnd russet fern, thy seemly-colour’d cloakTo bide the hoary frosts and dripping rainsOf chill December, and art gaily robedIn livery of the spring: upon thy browA cap of flowery hawthorn, and thy neckMantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thickOf golden bloom: nor lack thee tufted woodsAdown thy sides: tall oaks of lusty green,The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh topsOf the young hazel join, to form thy skirts

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