Written at Sidmouth

Why art thou sad, my soul, when all around
Such loveliness salutes thee? fragrant airs,
Bowers of unfading green, soft murmuring brooks,
Gay sunny slopes that wear their vernal hues,
Mocking the breath of winter; gorgeous cliffs,
And Ocean's awful pageantry; — and more
And dearer far, soft smiles, and radiant eyes.
Thou wert not wont with dim and tearful gaze
To look on these; — then wherefore art thou sad?
Thou art not here far distant many a mile
Thou lingerest, nor beneath a genial sky;
Hovering unseen around th' untimely couch
Of her, thy best beloved: and thou dost grieve
Because thou art not of that happy choir
That holds sweet evening converse at her side;
Because thou sharest not that pledge of peace
A father's nightly orison; because
Hearts knit to thine as its own vital flakes
Partake not of thy wonderings, and thy joys.
I stifle not thy sighs. 'Tis meet that thou should'st mourn.
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