By William Sotheby
RHINEFIELD! as through thy solitude I rove,
Now lost amid the deep wood’s gloomy night,
Doubtful I trace a ray of glimmering light;
Now where some antique oak, itself a grove,
Spreads its soft umbrage o’er the sunny glade,
Stretched on its mossy roots at early dawn,
While o’er the furze with light bound leaps the fawn,
I count the herd that crops the dewy blade:
Frequent at eve list to the hum profound
That all around upon the chill breeze floats,
Broke by the lonely keeper’s wild, strange notes;
At distance followed by the browsing deer
Or the bewildered stranger’s plaintive sound
That dies in lessening murmurs on the ear.
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