Ann Radcliffe

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Hail! to the hallow'd hill, the circling lawn.
The breezy upland, and the mountain stream!
The last tall pine that earliest meets the dawn,
And glistens latest to the western gleam!

Hail! every distant hill, and dowland plain!
Your dew-hid beauties Fancy oft unveils;
What time to Shepherd's reed, or Poet's strain,
Sorrowing my heart its destin'd woe bewails.

Blest are the fairy hour, the twilight shade
Of Ev'ning wand'ring thro her woodlands dear;
Sweet the still sound that steals along the glade;
'Tis Fancy wafts it, and her vot'ries hear.

'Tis Fancy wafts it!--and how sweet the sound!
I hear it now the distant hills uplong;
While fairy echoes from their dells around,
And woods and wilds, the feeble notes prolong!"

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