That quiet vale! it greets my vision now,
As when we saw it, one autumnal day,
A cloudless sun brightening each feathery spray
Of woods that clothed the Hanger to its brow:
Woods, whose luxuriance hardly might allow
A peep at that small hamlet, as it lay,
Bosom'd in orchard plots and gardens gay,
With here and there a field, perchance, to plough.
Delightful valley! still I own thy claim;
As when I gave thee one last lingering look,
And felt thou wast indeed a fitting nook
For him to dwell in, whose undying name
Has unto thee bequeath'd its humble fame,
Pure and imperishable,—like his book!