BETA

My Native Vale.

Exotics hence! away, ye alien train,1
That pining languish in our northern air;2
To me the wild flowers of my native plain3
Breathe sweeter fragrance, glow with tints more fair.4
Were mine the choice the richest balm to share,5
That e’er was wafted on the southern gale,6
Or scent the incense of dear Clochton’s yale,7
And press the simple flowers that blossom there;8
My choice were made—for there in life’s gay morn9
I roved, light-hearted, o’er the rural scene;10
Though distant far, ’tis mine to sigh forlorn,11
Yet fond remembrance dwells on what has been;12
Though fancy’s flowers have wither’d in the blast,13
It is “ the joy of grief” to muse upon the past.14