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LEWESDON HILL.
3
In many a wavy fold of verdant wreath.So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee upAgainst the birth of May; and, vested so,Thou dost appear more gracefully array'dThan Fashion's worshippers; whose gaudy shows,Fantastical as are a sick man's dreams,From vanity to costly vanityChange ofter than the moon. Thy comely dress,From sad to gay returning with the year,Shall grace thee still till Nature's self shall change.
These are the beauties of thy woodland sceneAt each return of spring: yet some delightRather to view the change; and fondly gazeOn fading colours, and the thousand tintsWhich Autumn lays upon the varying leaf.I like them not: for all their boasted huesAre kin to Sickliness; mortal DecayIs drinking up their vital juice; that gone,They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praiseSuch false complexions, and for beauty takeA look consumption-bred? As soon, if gray

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