T HE Milbourne Groves in silent grief no more
The Summer's vocal fugitives deplore;
For Echo whispers to the passing gale
On Time's enchanted plume a Hermit's tale —
That an accomplish'd and a partial Guest
The solitary Vale has cheer'd and blest;
From its dull throne Ambition's pride has hurl'd,
With Taste and Sense atoning for the World .