Бернард Бартон (Bernard Barton)

Benhall

BENHALL! although I have not lately sought,
As I had purposed, thy delightful shades,
Their charms survive; and oft by memory’s aids,
In living beauty are before me brought.
No breeze that sweeps their flowers with perfume fraught;
Nor sun, nor moon-beam, whose soft light pervades
The coy recesses of thy loveliest glades,
Sweeter, or fairer, than thou art to thought!
Yet not thy scenery only thus endears
Thy memory,—deeper spell remains behind:
Rich art thou in the lore of long-past years,
The songs of bards, whose brows by fame are twined
With deathless bays; and, worthy such compeers,
A poet of thy own, of taste refined.

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