Oh, sweet Adare! oh, lovely vale!
Oh, soft retreat of sylvan splendour!
Nor summer sun nor morning gale
E'er hail'd a scene more softly tender.
A Place in thy memory, Dearest!
Is all that I claim:
To pause and look back when thou hearest
The sound of my name.
Know ye not that lovely river?
Know ye not that smiling river?
Whose gentle flood,
By cliff and wood,
White bird of the tempest! O beautiful thing,
With the bosom of snow, and the motionless wing,
Now sweeping the billow, now floating on high,
WHEN like the early rose,
Beauty in childhood blows,
Methought I roved on shining walks,
'Mid odorous groves and wreathed bowers.
Where, trembling on their tender stalks,
Sleep that like the couched dove
Broods o'er the weary eye,
Dreams that with soft heavings move
The heart of memory,